The Old Story Over Again

When I was a maid.
Nor of lovers afraid,
My mother cried, "Girl, never listen to men."

Her lectures were long,
But I thought her quite wrong.
And said I, "Mother, whom should I listen to, then?"

Now teaching, in turn.
What I never could learn,
I find, like my mother, my lessons all vain;

Men ever deceive,—
Silly maidens believe,
And still 'tis the old story over again.

So humbly they woo.
What can poor maidens do
But keep them alive when they swear they must die?

Ah! who can forbear,
As they weep in despair,
Their crocodile tears in compassion to dry?

Yet, wedded at last,
When the honeymoon's past.
The lovers forsake us, the husbands remain;

Our vanity's check'd.
And we ne'er can expect
They will tell us the old story over again.