There was a lad as cold as ice;
He was my lover-twice.
(Don’t ask me more; it isn’t nice.)
Cruel cold, or I wouldn’t be
Counting them up now. Listen to me.
There was a fellow once-I hoped. .
He and another girl eloped.
A certain lad had let me think:
He went away and took a drink.
Then came a poet suave as oil-
But I was much too giddy to spoil.
There was a man with a bold black beard,
But he was nothing to be feared.
Yet there have been, and there will be,
One or two or even three
Could make a wanton girl of me:
(A wanton girl is hard to find
When so many men are dull or blind,
Or take a drink, or change their mind. . . .)