Other lads, their ways are daring:
      Other lads, they’re not afraid;
Other lads, they show they’re caring;
      Other lads—they know a maid.
Wiser Jock than ever you were,
      Will’s with gayer spirit blest,
Robin’s kindlier and truer,—
      Why should I love you the best?

Other lads, their eyes are bolder.
      Young they are, and strong and slim,
Ned is straight and broad of shoulder,
      Donald has a way with him.
David stands a head above you,
      Dick’s as brave as Lancelot,—
Why, ah why, then, should I love you?
      Naturally, I do not.

If it shine or if it rain,
     Little will I care or know.
Days, like drops upon a pane,
     Slip, and join, and go.

At my door’s another lad;
     Here's his flower in my hair.
If he see me pale and sad,
     Will he see me fair?

I sit looking at the floor.
     Little will I think or say
If he seek another door;
     Even if he stay.

In youth, it was a way I had
     To do my best to please,
And change, with every passing lad
     To suit his theories.

But now I know the things I know,
     And do the things I do;
And if you do not like me so,
     To hell, my love, with you!

SAY my love is easy had,
      Say I’m bitten raw with pride,
Say I am too often sad,––
   Still behold me at your side.

Say I’m neither brave nor young,
   Say I woo and coddle care,
Say the devil touched my tongue,––
   Still you have my heart to wear.

But say my verses do not scan,
   And I get me another man!

I DO not like my state of mind;
I’m bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn’s recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I’m disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I’d be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men. . . .
I’m due to fall in love again.

If I don’t drive around the park,
I’m pretty sure to make my mark.
If I’m in bed each night by ten,
I may get back my looks again,
If I abstain from fun and such,
I’ll probably amount to much,
But I shall stay the way I am,
Because I do not give a damn.