Original Size — The Lay of the Lover’s Friend
[Air—“The days we went a-gypsying.”]
I would all womankind were dead,
Or banished o’er the sea;
For they have been a bitter plague
These last six weeks to me:
It is not that I’m touched myself,
For that I do not fear;
No female face has shown me grace
For many a bygone year.
But ’tis the most infernal bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.
Whene’er we steam it to Black wall,
Or down to Greenwich run,
To quaff the pleasant cider-cup,
And feed on fish and fun;
Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill,
To catch a breath of air:
Then, for my sins, he straight begins
To rave about his fair.
Oh, ’tis the most tremendous bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.
In vain you pour into his ear
Your own confiding grief;
In vain you claim his sympathy,
In vain you ask relief;
In vain you try to rouse him by
Joke, repartee, or quiz;
His sole reply’s a burning sigh,
And “What a mind it is!”
O Lord! it is the greatest bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.
I’ve heard her thoroughly described
A hundred times, I’m sure;
And all the while I’ve tried to smile,
And patiently endure;
He waxes strong upon his pangs,
And potters o’er his grog;
And still I say, in a playful way—
“Why, you’re a lucky dog!”
But oh! it is the heaviest bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.
I really wish he’d do like me,
When I was young and strong;
I formed a passion every week,
But never kept it long.
But he has not the sportive mood
That always rescued me,
And so I would all women could
Be banished o’er the sea.
For ’tis the most egregious bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.