  Could I have had you made a boy, And both be young through life, Methinks I might forgo the joy Of calling you my wife. For sweet as is the kiss of love And all our converse staid, Still dearer to our hearts doth prove Some wayward escapade. When from behind your glistening foil You dare me to the fray, From sober spousehood I recoil; It is “en garde” straightway. And when we urge our light canoe Upon some sparkling tide, More prone am I to think of you As comrade than as bride. Ah, were you but a youth, like me, Who could, unawed, recline By huge camp fire, beneath some tree, Upon a couch of pine; And could you press through marsh and brake And thrive on hunter’s food, What sweet excursions we might make To nature’s solitude! Yet if you were a youth, some maid Might lure you from my side, So I shall wish you still, comrade, My dainty, fair-haired bride. |
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