  Once on a time when Men were Bold And Women Fair—to be precise— A Princess lived whose Hair was Gold Beyond the Dreams of Avarice; Beauty she had and Wealth untold, Besides a Fabulous Amount Of Jewels rare and Crowns of Gold, And Suitors more than she could count. Such Suitors! Tho’ her Fingers Fair Had been as leaves upon the Trees They still were far too few to wear The Rings they offered, on their Knees. In Coaches, Caravans, and Ships The Suitors came in Flocks untold, Happy to kiss her Finger-tips And beg from her a Lock of Gold. For tho’ she seemed to Cupid’s Dart Impervious, and would not share The smallest atom of her Heart, She was most lavish with her Hair. To all who craved the Golden Boon She gave, until one Night her Maid Exclaimed, “Alas! Your Highness soon Will not have Hair enough to braid!” Next day the Court was in a state, The usual audience was refused, A Notice hung upon the Gate— “The Princess begs to be Excused.” Daily the Throng of Suitors grew And clamored madly at the door, Until at length they formed a queue Extending for a mile or more. The Chancellor was in despair. “Princess, it comes to this,” he said, “That either you must lose your hair Or I must surely lose my head!” The Princess turned away her face. “Oh, dear,” she cried, “this grieves me sore; It will be hard to fill your place— You were a first-rate Chancellor! “But do not grieve—I have a plan To keep your head and save my Pride.” Then to the marble gate she ran, Unloosed her hair, stepped forth, and cried: “Brave Suitors, look upon this Gold, This mint of Curls—lo, I present A share to each of you—behold My Notes of Curl—at five per cent!” A cheer rose from a Thousand Throats; The panic passed—and months flew by. The Princess issued Tons of Notes, When lo!—a Bolt from out the Sky— A message came, brought by a Churl: “Pont Morgan, Sultan of Peru, Has bought up all your Notes of Curl, And all your Notes are falling Due!” The Princess grew distraught with fears By Day. At night she tossed in Bed, Dreaming an Awful Pair of Shears Hung by a Hair above her Head. At last the Fatal Morning came, And with it came Pont Morgan, too, With Awful Shears to press his claim, And an Enormous Retinue. “The Law is Just!” the People cried; “And She the Penalty must pay!” The Shears their Awful Jaws spread wide, When suddenly a Voice cried, “Stay!” An Unknown Damsel, Pale and Proud, And clad in Silken Cap and Gown, Strode swiftly through the gaping crowd, And struck the Awful Scissors down. “Beware!” she cried, “Proud Sultan, ere You touch a Hair of that Fair Head; For know you not that Every Hair Is numbered—as the Prophet said? “Show me the Notes—see, here is writ A number plain across each Bond, And you may only draw for it The numbered Hair to correspond. “So pause, Pont Morgan, ere you draw A Single Hair from that Gold Head; If it be wrong—then by the Law Your Life and Lands are forfeited!” “Hurray! Hurray! The Maid is Right!” The People cried with mad uproar. The Sultan turned a deadly white, And fell in Fits upon the Floor. “O Lady, whosoe’er you be, Claim what you will in all my Land!” The Princess cried. “I am,” said he, “Not Maid, but Man—I claim your Hand.” “’Tis yours! Right gladly will I be Your Bride—for in Creation’s Plan I never dreamed to find,” said she, “A Portia’s Logic in a Man!” |
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