When hearts are trumps | Page 6

has the sound of a in father.]
The Old-fashioned Girl.
There's an old-fashioned girl in an old fashioned street, Dressed in old-fashioned clothes from her head to her feet; And she spends all her time in the old-fashioned way?Of caring for poor people's children all day.
She never has been to cotillon or ball,?And she knows not the styles of the Spring or the Fall; Two hundred a year will suffice for her needs,?And an old-fashioned Bible is all that she reads.
And she has an old-fashioned heart that is true?To a fellow who died in an old coat of blue,?With its buttons all brass,--who is waiting above?For the woman who loved him with old-fashioned love.
A Retrospect.
I was poor as a beggar,--she knew it,--?But proud as a king through it all;?Though it cost me two dollars to do it,?I took little Meg to the ball.
Mere calico served her for satin;?My broadcloth was made of blue jeans.?Without crest or a motto in Latin,?Meg's style was as grand as a queen's.
And we were in dreamland all through it,?And I do not regret it at all;?Though it cost me two dollars to do it,?I took little Meg to the ball.
Hard Hit.
I guess that I'm done for, old chappie!?Done, whether she loves me or not,--?But don't look so deuced unhappy,--?Y'know it was I fired the shot.
Thanks, awfully. Give me the whiskey,--?There's a horrible pain in my head;?It's queer that my nerves should be frisky?When my heart is as heavy as lead.
I'm worthless; I own it! She told me,?That night at the Country Club ball,--?Don't try, dear old fellow, to hold me,--?Ah, Nellie!--it's over!--don't call!
She told me my life had been wasted,?That my money had ruined my mind,?That I'd not left a pleasure untasted,--?Had been a disgrace to mankind!
And now she's to marry another,--?A poor man, but honest and strong,?Who had never a passion to smother,?And never a chance to do wrong.
He loves her. They'll all think it funny?I don't curse him and kill him, old fel;?But she loves him. I've left him my money,--?For I love her--God bless her! Farewell!
Rejected.
Aw, yes, bah Jove. I thought you'd answer "No."?But still a fellah 's got to awsk, you see.?And then there was the chance you might outgrow?That way you had of making fun of me.
Three years in Europe sometimes make a change?In girls like you, who've always been adored;?And when you laughed, I thought it rawther strange.?Aw, I beg pawdon; p'haps you feel, aw--bored.
You don't? You think it fun--a fellah's pains?At words like yours? You don't know how they smart.?I know you think I haven't any brains;?But still, Miss Nellie, I've a--I've a heart.
Jokers
Her Yachting Cap.
Oh, the little yachting cap?That is lying in her lap?Has a sort of fascination for poor me.?It is made of something white,?And she wears it day and night,?Through the weeks she spends each summer by the sea.
She can make of it a fan,?And, when necessary, can?Hide her face behind it, if she chance to blush.?It has carried caramels,?Chocolate drops, and pretty shells,?And I've even seen her use it as a brush.
But still it has one fault
In my eyes. I'd better halt,?Had I not, and ponder well what I shall say?
She is darting warning glances.?Well, under certain circumstances,?The visor's always getting in my way.
Theft.
The moonlight steals around the pine;?Star-eyes steal radiance from thine.
Low music steals upon the ear;?Can there be theft when thou art near?
I steel my heart for fear of this,--?I steel my heart and steal a kiss.
I'd steal the sacramental wine?If it were sweet as kiss of thine!
Before her Mirror.
I pause before her mirror and reflect?(That's what the mirror does, I take it, too);?Reflect how little it has known neglect,?And think, "O mirror, would that I were you."
She has no secrets that you do not know,?You and yon crescent box of poudre de rose.?And even these long curling irons can show?Much evidence of use, yet naught disclose.
Here, when she smiles, you know it is her teeth?She's putting to the test ere she depart?For the gay revel on the lawn beneath,?Or moonlight ramble that may break a heart.
Here she may blush, until she, red as wine,?Knows that her triumphs have not ceased to be.?Here, when she frowns, and looks still more divine,?You know, wise mirror, that she thinks of me.
At Old Point Comfort.
You don't think of dresses, or ducats, or dukes;?You don't care for chaperone's rigid rebukes;?It's just simply grand,?To lie there on the sand,?Down at the beach,--?If a man's within reach.
Some like the moonlight and some like the sun,?Some flirt in earnest and some flirt in fun;?It's worth all the rash,?Reckless spending of cash,?All the dresses you spoil,?All the tempers you roil,?Down at the beach,--?If a man's within reach.
It's better than sleigh-rides, cotillons, or teas,?It makes the dull Patriarch's knickerbocked knees?Shake in the dance,?And then one has a chance,?If one's pretty and smart,?With a