My Rival

I go to concert, party, ball —
What profit is in these?
I sit alone against the wall
And strive to look at ease.

The incense that is mine by right
They burn before Her shrine;
And that's because I'm seventeen
And she is forty-nine.

I cannot check my girlish blush,
My colour comes and goes.
I redden to my finger-tips,
And sometimes to my nose.

But She is white where white should be,
And red where red should shine.
The blush that flies at seventeen
Is fixed at forty-nine.

I wish I had her constant cheek:
I wish that I could sing
All sorts of funny little songs,
Not quite the proper thing.

I'm very gauche and very shy,
Her jokes aren't in my line;
And, worst of all, I'm seventeen
While She is forty-nine.

The young men come, the young men go,
Each pink and white and neat,
She's older than their mothers, but
They grovel at Her feet.

They walk beside Her 'rickshaw-wheels —
None ever walk by mine;
And that's because I'm seventeen
And She is forty-nine.

She rides with half a dozen men
(She calls them "boys" and "mashes"),
I trot along the Mall alone;
My prettiest frocks and sashes

Don't help to fill my programme-card,
And vainly I repine
From ten to two A.M. Ah me!
Would I were forty-nine.

She calls me "darling," "pet," and "dear,"
And "sweet retiring maid."
I'm always at the back, I know —
She puts me in the shade.

She introduces me to men —
"Cast" lovers, I opine;
For sixty takes to seventeen,
Nineteen to forty-nine.

But even She must older grow
And end Her dancing days,
She can't go on for ever so
At concerts, balls, and plays.

One ray of priceless hope I see
Before my footsteps shine;
Just think, that She'll be eighty-one
When I am forty-nine!