Oh pretty page with the dimpled chin,
Who never has known the barber’s shear,
All your wish is women to win,
That is the way that boys begin,
Wait till you come to forty year.

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains,
Billing and cooing is all your cheer,
Sighing and singing of midnight strains
Under bonny bell’s window pains.
Wait till you come to forty year.

Forty times over let Christmas pass,
Grizzled hair the brain doth clear
Then you’ll know that a boy is an ass,
Then you’ll know the worth of a lass,
When you have come to forty year.

Gather round I bid you declare
All good men in whose beards there is gray
Did not the fairest of the fair
Common grow and wearisome ere
A month had passed away?

The reddest lips that have ever kissed
The brightest eyes that have ever shone
Did pray and whisper and we not list
Or turn away and never be missed
Ere yet ever a month had gone.

Gillian’s dead. God bless her fire.
How I loved her twenty years ago.
Marion’s married, but I sit here
Alone and merry at forty year
In control at last of my own libido.