Because I was a wonton wild
And welcomed many a lover,
Who is the father of my child
I wish I could discover.
For though I know it is not right
In tender arms to tarry,
A barmaid has to be polite
To Tom and Dick and Harry.
My truest love was Poacher Jim:
I wish my babe was his’n.
Yet I can’t father it on him
Because he was in prison.
As uniforms I like, I had
A soldier and a sailor;
Then there was Pete the painter lad,
And Timothy the tailor.
Though virtue hurt you vice ain’t nice;
They say to err is human;
Alas! one pays a bitter price,
It’s hell to be a woman.
Oh dear! Why was I born a lass
Who hated to say: No, sir.
I’d better in my sorry pass
Blame Mister Simms, the grocer.
