University of Virginia Library

Break your heart for Archie Dean,
Jenny Marsh, Jenny Marsh
Break your heart for Archie Dean,
Not a bit!
'Tis the very thing he's after;
He would say to Kitty Carrol
With a careless, mocking laughter:
Here's a pretty little chit
Who has died for love of me.
'Tis a pity.
But what is a man to do
When the girls beset him so?
If he gives a nosegay here,
If he calls another ‘dear,’
If he warbles to a third
A love ditty;
Why the darling little innocents
They take it all to heart.
A-lack-a-day.
Ah! she was a pretty maiden,
A little too fond-hearted,
Eyes a little too love-laden,
But—really—when we parted—
Well—she died for love of me—
“Kitty Carrol.” Don't you see
You are giving him to Kitty
Just as sure as sure can be?
'Tis the way he takes to woo her
By thus slyly showing to her
What a dashing, slashing beau is at her feet;
And for all the pretty prating
Of a woman's deathless loving
And her ever faithful proving
And her true and tried devotion,
I've a very wicked notion
That to carry off the one
Whom Mary here is sighing for,
And Fanny there is dying for,
Is nearly half the happiness and more than half the fun!
Now, if I were a man,
Jenny Marsh, Jenny Marsh,
If I only were a man
For a day
(I'm a woman so I can't
Always do just what I want),
But if I were a man I would say,
“Archie Dean, go to thunder!
What's the use of sighs, I wonder?
Your oaths and vows and mutterings
Are awfully profane!
Hie away to Kitty Carrol,
Your loss is but a gain.
And fishes still are swimming
Just as luscious every way
As those that hissed and sputtered
In the saucepan yesterday.”

But Jenny, darling Jenny,
You're a tender little woman,
And I can't expect you'll say what is
So shockingly inhuman,
And besides you'll never dare,
You little witch, to swear,
But don't you dance too merrily,
Because he may see through it,
And don't you flirt too far, my dear,
Because perhaps you'll rue it,
And don't put on an air as if
You're mortally offended—
'Twill be a feather in his cap,
And then the game is ended;
And when, with Kitty on his arm,
You meet him on the green,
Don't agonize your pouting lips
To “Mr. Arthur Dean.”
But every throb of pride or love
Be very sure to stifle
As if your intercourse with him
Were but the merest trifle;
And make believe with all your might
You do not care a feather
For all the Carrols in the world
And Archie Deans together.
Take this advice and get him back,
My darling, if you can,
And if you can't, why—right about,
And take another man!