On all the seashore none fairer than you;
    What but adore you could any one do? 
    Cheeks like the pink of an evening sky,
    Eyes that might bid a man laughingly die.

    Ears like the shells from the Indian sea,
    Teeth like white buds on a young apple-tree,
    Throat like a lily bent heavy with dew,
    Arms just as white and as lily-like too.

    Lips that would tempt—­ah! you’ll pardon me now,
    Being so near them suggests, you’ll allow,
    That the happiest thing e’er a mortal could do,
    Would be to be ever thus waltzing with you.

She Is Mine.

    There’s a sparkle in her eye
    That no millionnaire can buy. 
    If they think so, let them try—­
          She’s divine.

    There’s a blush upon her cheek
    Like the peach-tree’s blossom, eke,
    Like red willows by the creek,
          Or like wine.

    She has roses in her hair. 
    It was I who put them there. 
    Really, did I ever dare—­
          Is she mine?

    Or is it all a dream,—­
    Idle poet’s empty theme
    Put in words that make it seem
      Superfine?

    No; for see upon her hand
    There’s a little golden band,—­
    Filigree work, understand,
      Like a vine;

    And a perfect solitaire
    Fits upon it.  The affair
    Cost two hundred.  I don’t care! 
      She is mine.

Old Times.

    Ah, good old times of belles and beaux,
    Of powdered wigs and wondrous hose,
    Of stately airs and careful grace,
    Look you at our degenerate race.

    No more the gallant spends his time
    In writing of his love in rhyme;
    No more he lives unconscious of
    All earthly things save war and love.

    We modern men have toils and cares
    To streak our pates with whitened hairs,
    And have to crowd our love and all
    Into one short and weekly call.

Of My Love.

        Was ever a moon
        In joyous June
    As royal, radiant, rare as she,
        With her smiling lips,
        As she lightly trips
    Down through the autumn woods to me?

        Never a queen
        On her throne, I ween,
    Had such a loyal slave as I.
        Ready to bear
        All her cares, I swear,
    Just for a fleeting kiss on the sly.

        Oh for the day
        We gallop away
    To the curate’s cottage, Gretna Green;
        Side by side,
        Groom and bride,
    Happy twenty and sweet sixteen!

The Farewell.

    Not going abroad?  What, to-morrow,
      And to stay, goodness knows for how long? 
    Really, Jack, ’twould appear that dry sorrow
      Had done even you, sir, a wrong.

    It has?  Ha, ha, ha!  What a joke, sir! 
      Is it Mabel or Jenny or Nell? 
    I’m sure you are wrong,—­hold my cloak, sir,—­
      Am I not an old friend?  Come now, tell.