OH! wherefore and why art thou, old chaperon?
The days of thy usefulness long since have flown;
And useless not only art thou, but, far worse,
Thou art of my life the one torment and course.
I call on my Susie, but thou sittest by;
Wide open thine ear is, alert is thine eye.
To concerts, church, sleigh-rides we can't go alone,
But always must take thee, too, old chaperon.
If the rose I would gather, so fragrant and fair,
Thou art the keen thorn that dost bid me beware;
Or if the bright pearl I would snatch from the sea,
Thou art the closed shell that withholds it from me.
A thirst am I, and from the fountain would drink,
Thou art the green serpent that lurks in its brink;
Or, famished, would pluck the ripe fruit from the tree,
Thou fliest forth from it, a keen stinging bee.
Thou art the black cloud that e'er darkens my sky;
Thou art the great mote that oppresses my eye.
An incubus filling my soul full of woes;
The one ghastly skeleton my closet knows.
Forgive, dear old lady, the harsh things I've said;
In truth, you've quite driven me out of my head.
You're not an attractive old maid, you must own;
And you do bore me awfully, old chaperon.
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