And then a real lady you’ll be, my dear,
      Not only by nature but name;
    Mamma’ll be so proud,—­you can see, my dear,
      No one thinks it, as you do, a shame.

    So bend your proud head.  Are you faint, my dear? 
      Keep the tears back, be buoyant and brave. 
    Keep that pose!  Now a portrait we’ll paint, my dear,
      To be called “The American Slave.”

Sell Her,—­That’s Right.

    Sell her,—­that’s right!  She is young, she is fair;
    There’s the light of the sun in the coils of her hair. 
    And her soul is as white as the first flakes of snow
    That are falling to-night.  ’T is a bargain, a “go”
      Sell her,—­that’s right!

    Sell her,—­that’s right!  For a bag full of gold. 
    Put her down in your ledger, and label her “Sold”
    She’s only a beauty with somebody’s name,
    And the Church for a pittance will wash out the shame. 
      Sell her,—­that’s right!

Time and Place.

    Hasten on!  The mad moonlight is beaming
      On the hatred and love ’twixt us two;
    And it beams on the maid who is dreaming,
      And the grave made for me or for you.

    Time and place,—­love and life in the balance,
      Fear and hope in the glance of your eye. 
    Draw your blade!  Forget not we are gallants
      Who can laugh at our fate as we die.

    On your guard!  There’ll be blood on the metal
      Ere she wakes from her innocent dreams;
    There’s a long list of kisses to settle,
      And some love sighs and death sighs, it seems. 
    Bare your arm!  Strike for life and the maiden! 
      Take that!  You are cautious, I fear
    Speed the blow,—­’tis with happiness laden
      For him who does not remain here

    That and that!  I am wounded,—­it’s over
      Those kisses were destined for you;
    But now she is yours and you love her,
      Go tell her that I loved her too

Blood on the Rose.

    Is it dew on the rose? 
      ’T is the same that I gave him
    Last night when I chose
      To warn him and save him;

    That he pinned on his breast
      With a smile at his danger,
    And a smile, not in jest,
      That was sweeter and stranger

    Here are footprints of foes! 
      Oh, my heart!—­I can feel
    It is blood on the rose
      And a sliver of steel.

In Old Madrid.

    I strolled the streets in quest of any love,
      In old Madrid long centuries ago;
    I caught the perfume of a scented glove,
      I saw a sweet face in a portico.

    She laughed—­then paled.  She leaned out; whispered, “Fly!”
      And then I felt the sting of steel, the hiss
    Of curses in my ear, and knew that I
      Had forfeited my life—­and lost a kiss.