GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
Columbia Spectator.

A Toast.

Clink, clink,
  Fill up your glasses. 
Drink, drink,
  Drink to the lasses. 
Eyes that are blue,
  Lips that are sweet,
Hearts that are true,
  Figures petite. 
Clink, clink,
  Fill up your glasses. 
Drink, drink,
  Drink to the lasses. 
Drink, for there’s nothing so sweet as a maid is;
  Drink to the dearest of mortals, The Ladies.

HENRY MORGAN STONE.
Brunonian.

A Bit of Lace.

It lay upon a pillow white,
The framework of a beauteous sight
Wherein its mistress laid a bright
  Ecstatic face,
And when each night it proudly bore
Her wavy wealth of “cheveux d’or”
It seemed a very Heaven for
  The bit of lace.

But lace can from a pillow part
And by a touch, of cunning art
Adorn the casket of the heart,
  Where every grace,
Half hidden by its witching fold,
Seeks to betray a charm untold—­
How envies each admirer bold
  The bit of lace!

Still maidens’ mind and garments change,
And so there comes a new exchange;
The real Valenciennes finds a strange
  New resting-place,
Where tiny feet and ankles hide,
And where but for a shoe untied
No human eye had e’er espied
  The bit of lace.

A crowded street, a sudden scare,
A little rush, a lengthy tear,
A snowy skirt that needs repair,
  Decides the case. 
And what each morn her footman missed
Hung from a dainty, dimpled wrist,
And ardent lovers fondly kissed
  The bit of lace.

* * * * *

This tale is incomplete, I know,
But where else could the traveller go? 
Ah, it was fifty years ago
  All this took place. 
And nodding, in her noonday nap,
Secure from every sad mishap,
I see in Grandma’s dainty cap
  The bit of lace.

Red and Blue.

A Song to Her.

A song to a maid with eyes like stars;
Lad, you can sing it. 
Any old tune to trip the bars,
Any old voice to ring it;
Love will wend it away to her;
Love will mend it and pray to her;
Love with his love will wing it.

A song to a maid, a song of songs
Born in the singing
Ever, oh! ever to love belongs;
Ringing, ringing, ringing! 
Holly berry, a winter theme,
Bursting cherry, a summer’s dream,
Love on love’s pinions winging.

Wrinkle.

Circe.

Merry smiles and entrancing eyes,
  Words that are light as passing air. 
Lips that never disown disguise,
  Hearts that endeavor hearts to snare,
  Tongues that know not the way to spare,
Babbling on in a thoughtless whirl;
  Would-be worshippers, O beware! 
These are the ways of the modern girl.

Faces fickle as April skies,
  Eyes where Cupid has made his lair;
When they tempt you to idolize,
  Then for a broken heart prepare. 
  What does she care for your despair,
Striving peace from your life to hurl? 
  Would-be worshippers, O take care! 
These are the ways of the modern girl.