’Tis years, soubrette, since last we met,
    And yet, ah yet, how swift and tender
  My thoughts go back in Time’s dull track
    To you, sweet pink of female gender! 
  I shall not say—­though others may—­
    That time all human joy enhances;
  But the same old thrill comes to me still
    With memories of your songs and dances.

  Soubrettish ways these latter days
    Invite my praise, but never get it;
  I still am true to yours and you—­
    My record’s made—­I’ll not upset it! 
  The pranks they play, the things they say—­
    I’d blush to put the like on paper;
  And I’ll avow they don’t know how
    To dance, so awkwardly they caper!

  I used to sit down in the pit
    And see you flit like elf or fairy
  Across the stage, and I’ll engage
    No moonbeam sprite were half so airy. 
  Lo! everywhere about me there
    Were rivals reeking with pomatum,
  And if perchance they caught a glance
    In song or dance, how did I hate ’em!

  At half-past ten came rapture—­then
    Of all those men was I most happy,
  For wine and things and food for kings
    And tete-a-tetes were on the tapis. 
  Did you forget, my fair soubrette,
    Those suppers in the Cafe Rector—­
  The cozy nook where we partook
    Of sweeter draughts than fabled nectar?

  Oh, happy days, when youth’s wild ways
    Knew every phase of harmless folly! 
  Oh, blissful nights whose fierce delights
    Defied gaunt-featured Melancholy! 
  Gone are they all beyond recall,
    And I, a shade—­a mere reflection—­
  Am forced to feed my spirits’ greed
    Upon the husks of retrospection.

  And lo! to-night the phantom light
    That as a sprite flits on the fender
  Reveals a face whose girlish grace
    Brings back the feeling, warm and tender;
  And all the while the old time smile
    Plays on my visage, grim and wrinkled,
  As though, soubrette, your footfalls yet
    Upon my rusty heart-strings tinkled.

THE MONSTROUS PLEASANT BALLAD OF THE TAYLOR PUP.

  Now lithe and listen, gentles all,
    Now lithe ye all and hark
  Unto a ballad I shall sing
    About Buena Park.

  Of all the wonders happening there
    The strangest hap befell
  Upon a famous April morn,
    As you I now shall tell.

  It is about the Taylor pup
    And of his mistress eke,
  And of the pranking time they had
    That I would fain to speak.

  FITTE THE FIRST.

  The pup was of a noble mein
    As e’er you gazed upon;
  They called his mother Lady
    And his father was a Don.

  And both his mother and his sire
    Were of the race Bernard—­
  The family famed in histories
    And hymned of every bard.

  His form was of exuberant mold,
    Long, slim and loose of joints;
  There never was a pointer-dog
    So full as he of points.