Mere calico served her for satin;
      My broadcloth was made of blue jeans. 
    Without crest or a motto in Latin,
      Meg’s style was as grand as a queen’s.

    And we were in dreamland all through it,
      And I do not regret it at all;
    Though it cost me two dollars to do it,
      I took little Meg to the ball.

Hard Hit.

    I guess that I’m done for, old chappie! 
      Done, whether she loves me or not,—­
    But don’t look so deuced unhappy,—­
      Y’know it was I fired the shot.

    Thanks, awfully.  Give me the whiskey,—­
      There’s a horrible pain in my head;
    It’s queer that my nerves should be frisky
      When my heart is as heavy as lead.

    I’m worthless; I own it!  She told me,
      That night at the Country Club ball,—­
    Don’t try, dear old fellow, to hold me,—­
      Ah, Nellie!—­it’s over!—­don’t call!

    She told me my life had been wasted,
      That my money had ruined my mind,
    That I’d not left a pleasure untasted,—­
      Had been a disgrace to mankind!

    And now she’s to marry another,—­
      A poor man, but honest and strong,
    Who had never a passion to smother,
      And never a chance to do wrong.

    He loves her.  They’ll all think it funny
      I don’t curse him and kill him, old fel;
    But she loves him.  I’ve left him my money,—­
    For I love her—­God bless her!  Farewell!

Rejected.

    Aw, yes, bah Jove.  I thought you’d answer “No.” 
      But still a fellah ’s got to awsk, you see. 
    And then there was the chance you might outgrow
      That way you had of making fun of me.

    Three years in Europe sometimes make a change
      In girls like you, who’ve always been adored;
    And when you laughed, I thought it rawther strange. 
      Aw, I beg pawdon; p’haps you feel, aw—­bored.

    You don’t?  You think it fun—­a fellah’s pains
      At words like yours?  You don’t know how they smart. 
    I know you think I haven’t any brains;
      But still, Miss Nellie, I’ve a—­I’ve a heart.

Jokers

Her Yachting Cap.

      Oh, the little yachting cap
      That is lying in her lap
    Has a sort of fascination for poor me. 
      It is made of something white,
      And she wears it day and night,
    Through the weeks she spends each summer by the sea.

      She can make of it a fan,
      And, when necessary, can
    Hide her face behind it, if she chance to blush. 
      It has carried caramels,
      Chocolate drops, and pretty shells,
    And I’ve even seen her use it as a brush.

    But still it has one fault
        In my eyes.  I’d better halt,
    Had I not, and ponder well what I shall say? 
        She is darting warning glances. 
        Well, under certain circumstances,
    The visor’s always getting in my way.