When hearts are trumps Part 9

How they droop When she blushes!

How they flash When she crushes The love she's compelled to disguise!

Oh, her i's, her beautiful i's!

Who can tell them apart though he tries From her m's Or her e's, N's, or u's As you please In her letters? I offer a prize.

What it Is.

Just a little melancholy, Just a tear or two, Just a word that's naughty, Just a spiteful "pooh!"

Just an extra c.o.c.ktail, Just a flower-bill due, Just another ring to take Unto my friend, the Jew.

That is what it is to be Rejected, Miss, by you.

In her Pew.

She looked up from her pew (Why she did, Heaven knows); But I smiled; wouldn't you?

'T was the right thing to do; And, pshaw, n.o.body knew.

Then I tried hard to pose, But a look of hers froze All my blood. And I woo Her in future, old chappie, when not in her pew.

The Suspicious Lover to the Star.

O silver star, That seeth far, Tell my poor heart what she is doing; And ease my pain, Who would again Be at her side, and still be wooing.

Does she regret The token set By me upon her slender finger?

Or in the dance Do her eyes glance At it sometimes,--and sometimes linger?

Be, silver star, Particular, And do not be afraid of hurting.

I know her well, And truth to tell, I fear my lady love is flirting.

A Slight Surprise.

Come, lovely Laura! strike the lyre, And I will sing a song to thee That will thy maiden heart inspire With love, and love alone for me.

Why hesitate? Come, strike the lyre!

Down where the chord is minor D.

Of wooing thee I'll never tire.

Good gracious! Why do you strike me?

Past vs. Present.

Through all the days I courted her My memory fondly floats, When love and I exhorted her To read, re-read my notes.

But now I love her ten times more, And my soul fairly gloats To think that my hard times are o'er,-- For now she pays my notes.

The Usual Way.

Three young maidens sat in a row, With three grim dragons behind 'em; And each of these maidens had a young beau, And they all of 'em made 'em mind 'em.

These three maidens are married now; In three brown-stone fronts you'll find 'em.

But ever since the very first row They can none of 'em make 'em mind 'em.

A Difference in Style.

Sweet Phyllis sat upon a stile, With love and me beside her, Her red lips in a pouting smile.

A pout? Her eyes belied her.

My thoughts were merry as the day,-- And though the joke was shocking,-- I shouted quick, and turned away: "A spider's on your stocking!"

The fun, of course, I did not see, But heard an exclamation That sounded much like "Gracious me!"

And guessed the consternation.

Then Phyllis sat upon the style Of men who would deride her; But she no longer sits the while With love and me beside her.

Afraid.

Down the broad stairs, Stranger to cares, My love comes tripping and smiling and free; The snows on her breast Are a blush unconfessed.

I wonder what fate has in waiting for me?

My heart seems to throb Like a broken-paced cob; I fear I'm a coward in love, as they say.

She's commencing to laugh; How the fellows will chaff.

By Jove, I'm not going to ask her to-day.

Ye Retort Exasperating.