How a Fair One No Hope to His Highness Accorded

She has slid down the channelsOf history’s annalsDisguised as the child of a king,But that is a glibAnd iniquitous fib,For she never was any such thing:They called her the Fair Onewith Golden Locks,And it’s true she had loverswho swarmed in flocks,But the rest is ironic;Her business chronicWas selling hair-tonicBy bottle and box!

From the dawn till the gloamingShe used to sit combingHer hair in a languorous way.And her suitors would stopTo look into the shop,And stand there the rest of the day.She filled them with mute, butwith deep despair,For she never glanced up, witha smile, to whereThey stood about, crushingEach other, and blushing:She simply kept brushingHer beautiful hair.

But a prince who was passing,Engaged in amassingSome facts on American life,Was suddenly struckBy the fact that his luckMight give him that girl for a wife!His rashness he didn’tattempt to excuse,He entered the shop andhe stated his views.Remarking,“My jewel, I’m confident you willNot wish to be cruelEnough to refuse.

“Most winsome of creatures,”He told her, “your featuresHave led me to candidly sayThat no other besideWould I have for a bride:We’ll be married a week from to-day!I belong to a long anda titled line,And the least of your wishesI won’t decline;Next month I will usherMy wife into Russia: —Sweet comber and brusher,Consider you’re mine!”

She looked at him squarely,Considered him fairly,Her glance was as keen as a knife,Then she turned up her nose,And, with icy repose,She answered: “Well, not on your life!You’re not on the paperthe only blot!Do you think I come twelvein a parcel—what?Me pose as your dearie?Oh, go and chase Peary!You’re making me weary.Now git!”

(He got!)

The crowd that had waitedOutside was elatedSo much by the prince’s mischance,That they greeted with jeersAnd ironical cheers,The end of his little romance.They said : “Did it hurtwhen the ground you hit?”They searched for some markwhere the prince had lit,And as he looked colder,They only grew bolder,And tapped on his shoulderWith: “Tag! You’re It!”

The lengthy discussionThat sensitive RussianCompiled on the U. S. A.Was read by the maid,As she carelessly playedWith her beautiful hair one day.“The talk you hear in that primitive land,”He wrote, “nobodycan understand.”“Somebody who guffed him,”She said, “has stuffed him,And easily bluffed himTo beat the band!”

The Moral: The people across the brineAre exceedingly strong on Auld Lang Syne,But they’re lost in the push when they strikea gangThat is strong on American new line slang!