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.