So let me have the rouge again, And comb my hair the curly way. The poor young men, the dear young men They'll all be here by noon today.
And I shall wear the blue, I think-- They beg to touch its rippled lace; Or do they love me best in pink, So sweetly flattering the face?
And are you sure my eyes are bright, And is it true my cheek is clear? Young what's-his-name stayed half the night; He vows to cut his throat, poor dear!
So bring my scarlet slippers, then, And fetch the powder-puff to me. The dear young men, the poor young men-- They think I'm only seventy!