How A Fair One No Hope To His Highness Accorded

A poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl

She has slid down the channels
Of history's annals
Disguised as the child of a king,
But that is a glib
And iniquitous fib,
For she never was any such thing:
They called her the Fair One with Golden Locks,
And it's true she had lovers who swarmed in flocks,
But the rest is ironic;
Her business chronic
Was selling hair-tonic
By bottle and box!

From the dawn till the gloaming
She used to sit combing
Her hair in a languorous way.
And her suitors would stop
To look into the shop,
And stand there the rest of the day.
She filled them with mute, but with deep despair,
For she never glanced up, with a smile, to where
They stood about, crushing
Each other, and blushing:
She simply kept brushing
Her beautiful hair.

But a prince who was passing,
Engaged in amassing
Some facts on American life,
Was suddenly struck
By the fact that his luck
Might give him that girl for a wife!
His rashness he didn't attempt to excuse,
He entered the shop and he stated his views.
Remarking,
"My jewel,
I'm confident you will
Not wish to be cruel
Enough to refuse.

"Most winsome of creatures,"
He told her, "your features
Have led me to candidly say
That no other beside
Would I have for a bride:
We'll be married a week from to-day!
I belong to a long and a titled line,
And the least of your wishes I won't decline;
Next month I will usher
My wife into Russia:--
Sweet comber and brusher,
Consider you're mine!"

She looked at him squarely,
Considered him fairly,
Her glance was as keen as a knife,
Then she turned up her nose,
And, with icy repose,
She answered: "Well, not on your life!
You're not on the paper the only blot!
Do you think I come twelve in a parcel--what?
Me pose as your dearie?
Oh, go and chase Peary!
You're making me weary.
Now git!"

(He got!)

The crowd that had waited
Outside was elated
So much by the prince's mischance,
That they greeted with jeers
And ironical cheers,
The end of his little romance.
They said: "Did it hurt when the ground you hit?"
They searched for some mark where the prince had lit,
And as he looked colder,
They only grew bolder,
And tapped on his shoulder
With: "Tag! You're It!"

The lengthy discussion
That sensitive Russian
Compiled on the U. S. A.
Was read by the maid,
As she carelessly played
With her beautiful hair one day.
"The talk you hear in that primitive land,"
He wrote, "nobody can understand."
"Somebody who guffed him,"
She said, "has stuffed him,
And easily bluffed him
To beat the band!"


The Moral: The people across the brine
Are exceedingly strong on Auld Lang Syne,
But they're lost in the push when they strike a gang
That is strong on American new line slang!