This, no song of ingenue   This, no ballad of innocence   This, the rhyme of a lady who   Followed ever her natural bents      This, a solo of sapience   This, a chantey of sophistry   This, the sum of experiments   I loved them 'til they loved me      I loved them 'til they loved me   I loved them 'til they loved me      Decked in garments of sable hue   Daubed with ashes of myriad Lents   Wearing shower bouquets of rue   Walk I ever in penitence      Oft I roam, as my heart repents   Through God's acres of memory   Marking stones in my reverence   I loved them 'til they loved me      I loved them 'til they loved me   I loved them 'til they loved me      Pictures pass me in long review   Marching columns of dead events   I was tender and often true   Ever a prey to coincidence      Always knew I the consequence   Always saw what the end would be   We're as nature has made us hence   I loved them 'til they loved me      I loved them 'til they loved me   I loved them 'til they loved me      Princes, never I'd give offense   Won't you think of me tenderly?   You're my strength and my weakness, gents      This, no song of ingenue   This, no ballad of innocence   This, the rhyme of a lady who