The Chaperon

I take my chaperon to the play— She thinks she ’s taking me. And the gilded youth who owns the box, A proud young man is he; But how would his young heart be hurt If he could only know That not for his sweet sake I go Nor yet to see the trifling show; But to see my chaperon flirt. Her eyes beneath her snowy hair They sparkle young as mine; There ’s scarce a wrinkle in her hand So delicate and fine. And when my chaperon is seen, They come from everywhere— The dear old boys with silvery hair, With old-time grace and old-time air, To greet their old-time queen. They bow as my young Midas here Will never learn to bow (The dancing-masters do not teach That gracious reverence now); With voices quavering just a bit, They play their old parts through, They talk of folk who used to woo, Of hearts that broke in ’fifty-two— Now none the worse for it. And as those aged crickets chirp I watch my chaperon’s face, And see the dear old features take A new and tender grace; And in her happy eyes I see Her youth awakening bright, With all its hope, desire, delight— Ah, me! I wish that I were quite As young—as young as she!