  SAPPHO was pretty all agree, Some say that she was stately, You cannot prove it, though, by me— I haven’t seen her lately. In fact, I do not now recall I ever saw the girl at all. So we must take Dame Rumor’s word That Sappho was, indeed, a bird. Now, Sappho in her younger years, Was wooed by men a-plenty, And setting suitors by the ears Amused her much at twenty. She swore she’d not, at twenty-five, Accept the nicest man alive, And laughed to scorn the ardent Greek Who sought to kiss her damask cheek. But Sappho finds as years roll on, As oft a maid discovers, That when a maiden’s youth is gone, Gone also are her lovers. No suitor hangs about her door To wait her coming as of yore; And what is worse than all above— Just at this stage she falls in love. Just what she does, if tales are truth, (Fie on that rascal Cupid!) Is to select a verdant youth, A handsome boy, but stupid! She tries her best to win his heart With all her once unfailing art, But finds—ah, Eros! think of that! That Phaon thinks her old and fat. Poor Sappho keenly feels the shame Of love quite unrequited, And though she knows herself to blame, She feels her life is blighted. And so when some one tells her if She will jump off a handy cliff ’Twill cure her of her love and dumps— She rushes out—ah! ah—she jumps! Ah, reader, let us pause right here To drop a tiny, briny tear; Alas! Alack! Oh, woeful sight— It cured her of her love, all right! Fair maidens, heed this circumstance— |
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