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.