She play'd me false, but that's not why
 I haven't quite forgiven Di,
 Although I've tried:
 This curl was hers, so brown, so bright,
 She gave it me one blissful night,
 And -- more beside!
 In photo we were group'd together;
 She wore the darling hat and feather
 That I adore;
 In profile by her side I sat
 Reading my poetry -- but that
 She'd heard before.

 Why, after all, Di threw me over
 I never knew, and can't discover,
 Or even guess;
 May be Smith's lyrics she decided
 Were sweeter than the sweetest I did --
 I acquiesce.

 A week before their wedding day,
 When Smith was call'd in haste away
 To join the Staff,
 Di gave to him, with tearful mien,
 Our only photograph. I've seen
 That photograph.

 I've seen it in Smith's album-book!
 Just think! her hat -- her tender look,
 Are now that brute's!
 Before she gave it, off she cut
 My body, head, and lyrics, but
 She was obliged, the little slut,
 To leave my Boots.