My trusted little friend of yore,

Of course you'd think my love a bore,

It's not romantic:

I've passed beyond the football stage,

And e'en despair is saved by age

From growing frantic.

No, like a veteran grim and grey,

With sling and crutch,

I am but fit to watch the fray

Where, in the world-old, witching way,

In other hands your fingers stay

With lingering touch,

That may mean nothing, or it may

Mean, oh! so much.

I'll wed some woman, prim of face,

Who'll duly fill the housewife's place,

And with her hard, domestic grace

Illusions scatter;

But sometimes when the stars are full,

While at my season'd pipe I pull,

I'll see my little love once more,

With brilliant lovers by the score,

Whose tributes flatter.

And, thinking of the light gone by,

Murmur with philosophic sigh,

"It doesn't matter."

And then, perchance, this fan you'll find,

When all the new romance is over.

Sweet, may you ne'er with troubled mind

Half wish you never had resigned,

Your truest lover.