They come from the banks of the Hudson,
      From the sands of the Branch, and Cape May,
    From the parlors of bright Saratoga,
      From the dash of Niagara’s spray. 
    From misty, sea-salt Narragansett,
      From Mahopac’s magical lake. 
    They come on their way to new conquests,
      They’re longing for more hearts to break.

    E’en Newport is dull and deserted—­
      Its billowy beaches no more
    Made bright with sweet, ocean-kissed faces,
      Love’s beacon lights set on the shore. 
    The rugged White Hills of New Hampshire,
      The last of their lovers have seen,
    The echoes are left to their slumbers,
      No dainty feet thread the ravine.

    On West Point’s delightful parade ground
      Sighs many a hapless cadet,
    Who’s basked through the long days of Summer
      In the smiles of a city coquette;
    And now the incipient hero
      Beholds his enchantress depart,
    With the spoils of her lightly-won triumph,
      His buttons, as well as his heart.

    Come, dry your eyes, Grandmother Nature,
      They care not a whit for your woe;
    The city is calling her daughters—­
      We can’t spare them longer, they know—­
    Our beautiful, tender-voiced darlings,
      With the blue of the deep Summer skies,
    And the glow of the bright Summer sunshine,
      Entrapped in their mischievous eyes.

    We know their expenses are awful,
      That horror unspeakable fills
    The souls of unfortunate fathers
      Who foot up their dressmaker’s bills. 
    That they’d barter their souls for French candy;
      That diamonds ruin their peace;
    That they rave over middle-aged actors,
      And in other respects are—­well, geese.

    We laugh at them, boys, but we love them,
      For under their nonsense we know
    They’ve hearts that are honest and loving,
      And souls that are whiter than snow. 
    So out with that bottle of Roederer! 
      Large glasses, boys!  Up goes the cork! 
    All charged?  To the belles of creation,
      The glorious girls of New York.

    EIGHT HOURS.

    “Sign the petition!” “Write my name!”
      “She said, ask me!”—­oh, she’s fooling;
    Where do you think a girl like me
      Could find the time for so much schooling? 
    Why, I’ve been here since I was eight or so—­
      That’s ten years now—­and it seems like longer;
    The hours are from eight till six—­you see
      It wears one out—­I once was stronger. 
    “A bad cough!” oh, that’s nothing, sir;
      It comes from the dust, and bending over. 
    It hurts me sometimes—­no, not now. 
      “This!” why, a flower, a bit of clover. 
    I picked it up as I came to work—­
      It grew in the grass in some one’s airy,