Poetry Archives

Jenny was my first sweetheart;
Poor lass! she was none too smart.
Though I swore she’d never rue it,
She would never let me do it.
When I tried she mad a fuss,
So damn pure and virtuous.
Girls should cozen all they can,
Use their wiles to get their man.

June, my second, was no prude;
Too good-looking to be good;
Wanton and a giddy-gadder,
Never knew who might have had her;
Kept me mad and jumping jealous,
Tempting all the other fellows
Like a wayside flower to pluck her:
So at last I had to chuck her.

Now I’m settled down with Jill,
And we’re safely married still.
She began to wail and worry,
So we wedded in a hurry.
Well, it’s quite all right that way—
We’re all made of common clay,
And the grey-haired folk that bore us
Just as wanton were before us.

June, I hear, now lives in London
Where, I fear, she’s sadly undone.
Jenny, still as virtuous
Missed the matrimonial bus,
Where our “first” set gossips buzzin’
Jill and I now have a dozen,
Ready in their turn to prove
There’s no chastity in love.

June, so fickle and so fair,
Common was as barber’s chair;
Jill provides me with good grub,
Lets me go nights to the pub.
Though her silver hairs are many,
One eve I might call on Jenny . . .
She may not need too much urging:
Must be hell to die a virgin.