Till I won her shy consent--
T’ other day.
What! Did I say this took place
T’ other day?
Surely old time runs apace--
‘T is his way!
Though my grandson now is lying
On my knees to prove Time’s flying,
It still seems, there’s no denying,
T’ other day.
Right at Last
I
POLLY will not speak to me--
Very angry seems to be!
All because, while coming ‘long
From the meet for evening song
I have asked her for a kiss--
Just to seal our evening’s bliss.
II
Polly will not look at me--
Turns her back coquettishly;
Frowns demurely, tries to weep:
Is her anger then so deep?
Does she wish to punish me
For my rash temerity?
III
Polly will not hark to me--
Nor to my apology;
‘Til I, unable to resist,
Catch her in my arms and kiss
The pouting lips, and then I see
Polly sweetly smiles on me!
Time’s Vagaries
THERE’S a streak of gray in Mollie’s hair--
Ah, me! how Time flies!
Once her tresses were rich and fair,
But time has wrought this strange disguise
To make her sweeter in my eyes,
For Mollie’s beyond compare!
There’s many a wrinkle on Mollie’s face--
Ah, me! how Time flies!
But what a rogue Time is, to place
On velvet that subtle lace
To make her sweeter in my eyes
And give her added grace.
Mollie’s blue eyes are growing dim--
Ah, me! how Time flies!
‘T is strange that Time should seize the whim
To change them so; yet thanks to him,
She’s even sweeter in my eyes,
Despite the tyrant grim.
In fact, my Mollie’s growing old--
But then, you know, Time flies.
‘T was years ago when first I told
Fair Mollie of my love so bold,
And now she’s sweeter in my eyes
Than then, a thousandfold!
Her Answer
I
O’ER my darling’s cheeks the lashes
Fall in trembling modesty,
Shutting out the loving flashes
From the eyes so dear to me.
And, although no word is spoken,
I am answered by this token.
II
O’er my darling’s cheeks are stealing
All the tintings of the roses,
Love’s unfailing sign, revealing
That in me her heart reposes.
As the blushes come and go
Well her answer do I know!
III
On my darling’s lip there lingers
Just a hint of smile enchanting;
Softly clasped are dainty fingers,
Swells the bosom, faintly panting.
Never mind the whispered “yes,”
Love, your answer I can guess!
My Quandary
‘T IS very sad, alas! to be
In such a dreadful quandary--
I wish you’d help me out!
Please tell me which--but there! I’ll just
Explain the case, and then, I trust,
You’ll ease me of my doubt.
The baby is his father’s joy--
A chubby, dimpled, laughing boy
Well worthy of my pride;
His rosy-tinted finger-tips
His candid eyes and smiling lips
Mark Innocence personified.
And Bessie holds him in her arms
Close to her breast, and on his charms
She feasts her loving eyes;
While o’er her face a radiance steals
That all her mother-love reveals
In all its sweetest guise.
And so, my quandary is this:
Betwixt the babe’s and Bessie’s bliss
Which do you think completer?
Or, put in in another way:
Suppose that you were me--now, pray,
Which would you think the sweeter?
My First Love
WHEN first I pressed Rosanna’s hand
My love did not withdraw it
‘Til my hand trembled with delight,
And then, indeed, she saw it;
For very softly she withdrew
Her hand--and she was trembling, too!
When first I kissed Rosanna’s lips
I thrilled with ecstacy;
And, though I’ve often kissed her since,
No other kiss can be
Quite so delicious as that one
Which sealed her for my very own.
When first my arm around her waist
Stole in a sweet embrace,
Her head upon my shoulder fell
To hide her blushing face.
She softly whispered “please let go!”
And yet, I think she liked it so.
Those first endearments linger yet
In memry’s deep recess,
Although since then I ‘ve surely had
A surfiet of caresses.
Yet well I know regret is vain,
Since my first love never comes again.
The Green-Eyed Monster
WHEN Mabel waltzed with Captain Brown
My heart was in a flutter,
I scarcely could repress a frown,
And naughty words did mutter.
Of course, I did not swear aloud,
For I was waltzing sadly
With Miss McGee, who’s very proud
And dances very badly.
But as we whirled I oft did look
Where Mabel waltzed so lightly,
And wondered why the villain took
Her round the waist so tightly.
I saw her tranquil, downcast eyes,
Though she was blushing sweetly,
And noted how, to my surprise,
She seemed absorbed completely.
And when that horrid dance was o’er
As soon as I was able
I strode across the ballroom floor
And angrily sought Mabel.
But, e’er I had a chance to speak
She said, in accents sprightly,
“I saw you dancing with that freak
Whose dress is so unsightly;
“You did not even pity me,
Though I was bored to death,
But dance with poor old Miss McGee
‘Til you were out of breath!”
At this, I laughed quite merrily
And smoothed away my frown,
For now I knew she loved but me,
And not poor Captain Brown.
Jessie, My Queen!
NOW, bow thy crest and bend the knee
And humbly droop thine eye,
And thus in reverent posture be
‘Til Jessie, my Queen, goes by.
Nor shalt you have rebellious thought,
That thou must homage bear--
Far more than crowned Queen she ought
The crown of fame to wear.
For Jessie’s eyes are clear and blue:
Can other Queens show eyes so true?
And Jessie’s brow is smooth and white:
In such a brow would Queens delight!
And Jessie’s lips are red and sweet:
Would Queens’ lips be so sweet to meet?
And Jessie’s hair is golden red:
What queen has such a regal head?
All other forms her form demeans
In all ways she’s divine!
The world claims all the earhtly q
ueens,
While Jessie, my Queen, is mine.
Then bow thy crest and bend the knee
And humbly droop thine eye,
And thus in reverent posture be
‘Til Jessie, my Queen, goes by.
A Sonnet to My Lady’s Eye
IF inspiration comes, I’ll try
A sonnet to my lady’s eye--
Her black eye.
And yet, there seems a woeful lack
Of proper words to rhyme with “black,”
And black eyes savor of attack--
I’d best abandon black.
I’ll start again, and this time try
A sonnet to my lady’s eye--
Her gray eye.
And yet, what color does convey
So passionless a sense as gray?
And tigers’ eyes are gray, they say--
My lady’s can’t be gray.
Ah, now the idea comes! I’ll try
A sonnet to my lady’s eye--
Her violet eye.
And yet, unless I much forget,
No lady’s eye was violet
Since time began; so with regret,
Adieu to violet!
And so at last I’m force to try
A sonnet to my lady’s eye--
Her blue eye.
And yet, what can I say that’s new?
The whole world knows blue eyes are true;
Besides, I must confess to you
My lady’s eyes are blue!
Tell Me
TELL me, if at ev’ry meeting,
As I hold her hand in greeeting,
My poor heart is wildly beating--
Is this love?
When, in accents low and broken
Tender words to her I’ve spoken
Shall I know, and by what token?
This is love?
Tell me, when with pulses flying
For her presence I am sighing,
What’s the method of applying
This to love?
For, you see, in years departed
Oft have I been broken hearted
When a maiden’s “no” imparted
Woe to love.
Yet, somehow, I have existed,
And in other loves persisted,
Though each one I have insisted
Was true love.
At Last
I AM reading your letter tonight, dear heart,
The letter you wrote long ago.
The pages are tattered and falling apart
But well every sweet word I know.
You tell me your love will abide for alway
‘Till once more I stand by your side
And as you say you will joyfully welcome the day
I returned for my own promised pride.
No matter though oceans are rolling between,
No matter though suitors may bow,
No matter though slow-dragging years intervene
You say you ‘ll be true to our vow.
Ah, many a summer has blossomed since then
And many a drear winter passed,
But now, my own love, I am coming again,
To claim your sweet promise at last.
I know that my hair is well sprinkled with gray,
That my features are wrinkled and stern;
For fighting the world is a grim sort of play,
As even the victor must learn.
But what do I care, when this old heart of mine
Has grown the more steadfast and true,
When even the traces of years are a sign
That I ‘ve remained faithful to you?
I know that your poor heart has suffered much pain
Throughout the long years that are past,
But now, my own love, I am coming again
To claim your sweet promise at last!
The Answer
Dear Tom: your nice letter just reached me today.
So glad you ‘re at last coming home!
My husband and I, there is no need to say,
Insist on a call when you come.
And the children, sweet pets! will listen with joy
To your tales of adventure so true;
And--oh! by the way, our youngest dear boy
We’ve just christened Tom--after you!
Cycling Verse: A Header
I CATCH a flash from merry eye--
I see a wave of golden curl;
And then there swiftly passes by
Upon her wheel, a pretty girl!
I know my seat is not secure,
(I’ve only had my wheel a day),
And yet one glance I must procure
Before the vision speeds away.
Vainglorious fool! Upon my head
I land, nor see the sight I sought;
For down the street my charmer’s fled
And I’ve a header for nought!
A Ruse
WHEN sweet Irene learned to ride
Fearsome doubts did rend her;
So she kept me at her side,
That I might defend her.
And I cried “look out, Irene!
Sit up straight and do not lean
O’er the side of the machine--
That’s the way to ride!”
Said the maiden “I’m afraid!--
It’s so very treacherous;
And I Wish I’d stayed
And not been so venturous.”
“Nonsense!” I replied, “‘t isclear
You are safe while I am here.
Pedal on without a fear--
Never be dismayed!--
But Irene, with reckless grace,
From her saddle swayed,
And I in a close embrace
Caught the frightened maid.
“There is no cause for alarm,”
I exclaimed, “You ‘re safe from harm
While encircled by my arm.”
“That is true,” she said.
Queer it was, but after that,
(While my ring she wore)
Firmly the machine she sat--
Frightened never more!
And I said, “I’m glad you fell
E’er you learned to ride so well.”
“Yes,” said she, “but, truth to tell,
“I intended that!”
The Proud Miss MacNeal
OH, very proud was Miss MacNeal!
Proud of her bloomers and proud of her wheel,
Proud of the style she couldn’t but feel
The whole world recognized;
She was proud of the boots that fitted so neat,
Proud of her costume so natty and sweet,
Proud that her outfit was so complete
Beholders were paralyzed;
Proud that her mount was strictly high grade,
Proud that to scorch she was n’t afraid,
Proud that her lady friends essayed
To flatter by imitation;
She was proud she held her head so high
That every commoner passing by
With envious and with jealous sigh
Acknowledged her lofty station.
Of course, there were some with hearts so sore
As they watched her pedal the boulevards o’er
Who declared her father had peddled before,
To earn an honest living;
But Miss MacNeal nor knew nor cared
The wicked tongues of those who stares
Such ancient history had bared
With memories unforgiving.
A little higher she raised her nose
A trifle jauntier she held her pose,
A glance of approval she gave her clothes
And smiled in sweet derision.
Nor knew that speeding down the street
With low-bowed head and twinkling feet
A scorcher rushed, her wheel to meet
In terrible collision.
There came a clash of steel
to steel;
There lay a mess of damaged wheel;
And, torn and trembling, Miss MacNeal
Arose from out the gutter.
With bloomers rent both hip and thigh,
With vast contusions on her eye,
Upon the curb she sank to cry
And moans of grief to utter.
Nor failed to hear the wicked jeers
From onlookers, that met her ears
As wantonly they lavished sneers
Upon her wretched plight.
“The clouds that in the heavens spread
Are beautiful,” one mocker said,
“But cycling folk should look ahead--
Unless they ‘ve second sight!”
Oh, never more will Miss MacNeal
In natty bloomers mount her wheel
And all the sweet sensations feel
Of speeding down the street!
With humble mien she ambles down
The sidewalks that adorn the town,
And seems content in modest gown
To exercise her feet.
Farmer Benson on the Motocycle
“HERE, Betsy, come to the winder--quick!
An’ limber along right spry--
It comes up the hill like a thousand o’ brick,
An’ I want you to see it go by.
‘There’s curious things took place in this world
Since we’ve lived, an’ before we die
We’ll see the peculiarest wheel that ‘ere whirled--
When the new motocycle rolls by.
“There she goes! like a thing o’ life a’most--
Just watch them ‘air rubber wheels fly!
That old hoss an’ wagon’ll have to clear coast
When the new motocycle spins by.
“I thought when the ‘phone and the phonograph come
I’d see no greater sight ‘til I’d die;
But I’ve seen the new gal in bloomers, by gum!
An’ the new motocycle pass by.
Then and Now
WHEN Mary first wore bloomers
Tom tore his hair and swore
He never could love her
As he’d loved her just before.
But Mary ‘s wearing bloomers yet,
And Tom, regardless ofhis threat,
Still called her “my own darling pet”--
In bloomers!
When Mary first wore bloomers
The little dogs would bark
As on her wheel she sped along
The pathway to the park.
But Mary’s wearing bloomers still;
The dogs have lost their old ill-will
And all desire to chase and kill
Those bloomers.
When Mary first wore bloomers
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 871
