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.