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!