a poem from "Judy, or the London serio-comic
Journal, London, 1873...
WOMAN IS FALSE!
The first I loved was Mary Blair,
A gentle maid with golden hair—
Hair wonderful to see.
Alas ! one stormy April day,
The rude wind bore her locks away,
And lodged them in a tree.
My second love was Annie Weeks
The peach-like bloom upon whose cheeks
My heart next captive made.
This love, I thought, could have no end,
It did not on a hair depend—
Her charm could only fade.
Her little brother brought one day
A pot to me in child-like play,
Which told me my love's doom:
It bore her name, "Miss Annie Weeks;"
Beneath it, "Opoponakeeks—
The New Circassian Bloom."
The last I loved, of course, was fair,
Her charm not solely golden hair,
Nor cheek with bloom of peach;
But eyes, and nose, and teeth, and hair,
Arch'd neck, round arms, complexion fair,
She bad a charm in each.
One fatal night, at County Ball,
I saw her with a Guardsman tall,
Engaged in giddy waltz.
Worse far than locks by lucre got,
Complexions purchased by the pot—
Her heart to me was false!