George P. Morris

I ’M much too young to marry,

For I am only seventeen;

Why think I then of Harry?—

What can it mean—what can it mean?

Whenever Harry meets me,

Beside the brook, or on the green,

How tenderly he greets me!

What can it mean—what can it mean?

Whene’er my name he utters,

A blush upon my cheek is seen,

And then my heart so flutters—

What can it mean—what can it mean?

And when he mentions Cupid,

Or, smiling, calls me “fairy queen,”

I sigh and look so stupid!—

What can it mean—what can it mean?

Oh, mercy! what can ail me?

I ’m growing pale and very lean;

My spirits often fail me!

What can it mean—what can it mean?

I ’M NOT IN LOVE!—oh smother

Such a thought at seventeen:

I ’ll go and ask my mother

What it can mean—what it can mean.