Ingratitude.

    Last night young Cupid lost his way,
      And came to me to find it. 
    He’d been a truant all the day,
      But didn’t seem to mind it.

    I put him in a hansom then
      For home, and feed the cabby;
    But my reward was what most men
      Would call extremely shabby.

    He got his bow and arrows out,
      And pierced my heart, nor tarried,
    But drove away ere I could shout,
      “Great Heavens, Cupe, I’m married!”

A Few Resolutions.

(With Reservations)

    He shall never know that I love him—­
      Until he asks if I do. 
    And I’ll feel very much above him—­
      When he stoops to tie my shoe.

    And I shall never kiss him—­
      Until he kisses me. 
    And I shall never miss him—­
      Till he sails over the sea.

    And I shall never wed him,
      Nor call myself his bride—­
    Till Cupid and I have led him
      Right up to the minister’s side.

A Dilemma.

    A letter for me,
      From the girl that I love! 
    Just penned by her hand
    And caressed by her glove. 
      A jewel—­a gem—­ah! 
      A letter from Emma.

    A letter for me,
      Oh, what joy, what surprise! 
    Just kissed by her lips—­
      At least, blest by her eyes. 
        ’T is opened—­ahem, ah! 
        A letter from Emma.

    A letter for me,
      From my sweet little bird. 
    Eight pages, by Jove! 
      And I can’t read a word. 
        A precious dilemma,
        This letter from Emma!

A Choice not Necessary.

      Here is a rose,
      Here is a kiss;
    Which do you choose? 
      One rhymes with prose;
      One rhymes with bliss. 
    Ah, you amuse.

      You hesitate,
      You blush, you sigh. 
    What! are you loath? 
      ’Tis getting late;
      Be quick—­
    Fool, take them both!

That Boston Girl.

    Her voice is sweet,
      Her style is neat;
    She’d move the world with but a pen. 
      Her mind is clear;
      Her sight, though near,
    Is long enough to capture men. 
    What matters it her learning, then?

The Hero.

    He looked so handsome, proud, and brave,
      As he stood there, straight and tall,
    With his steadfast eyes, so gray, so grave,
      The beau of the Hunt Club ball.

    Ah me, full many a white breast sighed
      For the favor of his hand,—­
    For the love of a heart so true, so tried,
      For life, you understand.

    He looked a hero; he was more,
      A martyr, too, perchance;
    For he went to the oldest girl on the floor,
      And led her out to dance.

The Sweet Summer Girl.