  I SAID to my sweet in the morning, “We must start on our journey at ten”— She was up in her bedroom adorning, She’d been there a goodish time then; And she answered me tenderly, “Poppet,” As she came to the top of the stair, “If you see a cab pass you can stop it, For I’ve only to finish my hair.” It was ten by the clock of St. Stephen’s As I sat and looked glum in the hall, And I offered to wager her evens She would never be ready at all. I counted the half and the quarters— At eleven I ventured to swear; Then she answered, like one of Eve’s daughters, “All right, dear—I must do my hair.” I waited till daylight was waning, I waited till darkness began, Upbraiding myself for complaining Like a selfish and bad-tempered man. But when midnight rang out from the steeple I ventured to whisper a prayer, And she answered, “I hate surly people; You must let me finish my hair! I paid for the cab and dismissed it, I took off my coat and my hat, I held her fair hand and I kissed it, And I curled myself up on the mat. And when I awoke on the morrow, I cried, “Oh, where art thou, my fair?” And she answered, “Oh, run out and borrow A hairpin or two for my hair.” The summers have faded to winters, The winters have melted to springs; My patience is shivered to splinters, And still, as she “puts on her things,” My sweet, though I’m weary of waiting, And groan in my bitter despair, Contents herself simply by stating “She’s just got to finish her hair.” If she’s here when the world’s at its finish, And lists to the last crack of doom, She will watch our poor planet diminish From the window upstairs in her room. And when the last trumpet is blowing, And the angel says, “Hurry up, there!” She will answer, “All right, sir, I’m going, But you must let me finish my hair!” |
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