Dinah is young, and I am old;
She takes two cushions to attack
Me, and her kisses close my eyes;
She combs my hair, that still is black.
Ah, my poor child, you do not know
The state of your live doll;
When you are gone out shopping, he
Sits thinking of it all.
The cushion-fights will soon be done,
He'll need a pillow for his head;
And fingers, not your kisses, love,
Must close his eyes, when he lies dead.
You'll not sit laughing on his knee
To comb his hair when white as snow,
Or when a few thin hairs remain
Of all its tangled blackness now.
Blinded by his young spirit, you
Can see no signs that he must die:
Your doll, my child, will make of you
A serious woman, by and by.