Now with mournful
    Looks and scornful
    Turns he too us;
    He is through us,
      Worried, harried. 
    Love is sighing;
    Love is dying. 
      We are married.

On Two Letters from Her.

    I wrote her a letter.  It took her quite two
      To answer it after she’d read it. 
    My letter contained what perhaps even you
      Have written,—­at least, you have said it.

    My letter contained the old tale of a heart
      That longed to be linked to another;
    And I told her to think on each separate part,
      And ask the advice of her mother.

    She apparently did, for the very next mail
      Brought me a message of woe. 
    It took her two letters; they made me turn pale;
      For they were the letters “N” “O”.

A Serenade—­en Deux Langues.

    Sous le maple, mort de night,
      Avec le lune beams shining through,
    Ecoutez-moi, mon hapless plight. 
      Je vous aime—­qui lovez-vous?

    Je plink les strings de mon guitar. 
      Il fait bien froid; J’am nervous, too. 
    Dites-moi, dites-moi ce que vous are? 
      Je vous aime; qui lovez-vous?

    Tu es si belle, je veux vous wed. 
      Mon pere est riche—­comme riche est you? 
    Bonne nuit, adieu; J’ai cold in head. 
      Je vous aime—­qui lovez-vous.

When a Girl says “No.”

      When a girl says “Yes,”
      There’s a quick caress,
      A kiss, a sigh,
      A melting eye. 
      There’s a vision of things
      That hard cash brings,—­
      A winter at Nice
      With a servant apiece,
      A long yachting cruise,
      Name in “personal news,”
      Plenty of wine,
      Two hours to dine;
    But it’s different quite when a girl says “No.”

    When a girl says “No,”
      It’s so different, oh! 
      No kiss, ten sighs,
      Two tear-dimmed eyes. 
      There’s a vision of things
      That poverty brings,—­
      A winter complete
      On Uneasy Street,
      A temptation to rob,
      A twelve-dollar job,
      A boarding-house meal,
      And you pray a new deal;
    For it’s different quite when a girl says “No.”

Uncertainty.

    Jenny has a laughing eye,
    Yet she is most wondrous shy. 
                But why?

    Jenny says she hates the men;
    Still she’ll marry.  Artful Jen! 
                But when?

    I’ve a rival who is rich;
    With one of us sweet Jen will hitch. 
                But which?

Her Peculiarities.

The Question of the Learned Man.

    How doth the little blushing maid
      Employ each shining hour? 
    Doth she, in sober thought arrayed,
      Learn knowledge that is power?