WHEN THE ROSES GO.

You tell me you love me; you bid me believe

That never such lover could mean to deceive.

You tell me the tale which a million times

Has been told, and talked, and sung in rhymes;

You rave o'er my “eyes” and my “beautiful hair,”

And swear to be true, as they always swear;

But the wrinkles will grow, and the roses go,

And lovers are rovers oft, you know,

When the roses go.

I have heard of a woman, sweet and fair,

With dewy lips and shining hair,

And you pledged to her, on your bended knee,

The self-same vow you make to me.

She was fairer than I, I know;

She was pure and true, and she loved you so;

But the wrinkles will grow and the roses go —

How she learned that trouble comes, you know,

When the roses go.

You're a man in each outward sense, I trow,

With the stamp of a god on your peerless brow.

You hold my hand in your thrilling clasp,

And my heart grows weak in your subtle grasp,

Till I blush in the light of your tender eyes,

And dream of a far-of paradise —

Almost forgetting that ever from there

Another was turned in her bleak despair.

But the wrinkles will grow, and the roses go —

I will answer you, love, my love, you know,

When the roses go.