Just a little melancholy,
      Just a tear or two,
    Just a word that’s naughty,
      Just a spiteful “pooh!”

    Just an extra cocktail,
      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, nobody 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.