  FOND lover, when you come to woo, And whisper nothings tender, And try to span, as lovers do, A waist that once was slender, Be not upset if curt rebuff Your amorous joy should leaven; That sort of thing is apt to huff The girl of forty-seven. That girl, who’s up to every game, Knows more than you can teach her; With Cupid’s bow it’s vain to aim, His arrows rarely reach her. The only words to touch her heart Are “Coutts” or “Barclay Bevan;” Gold-tipped must be the Blind God’s dart For girls of forty-seven. Don’t think by gazing in her eyes With simulated rapture, Don’t think by sentimental sighs Her seasoned heart to capture; Just show your banker’s book, my son, And if the will of Heaven Has blessed your balance, you have won The girl of forty-seven. |
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