The lists were made--the trumpet's blast
Rang pealing through the air.
My 'squire made lace and rivet fast
And brought my tried _destrerre_.
I rode where sat fair Isidore
Inez Mathilde Borghese;
From spur to crest she scann'd me o'er,
Then said "He's not the cheese!"
O, Mary mother! how burn'd my cheek!
I proudly rode away;
And vow'd "Woe's his I who dares to break
A lance with me to-day!"
I won the prize! (Revenge is sweet,
I thought me of a _ruse_;)
I laid it at her rival's feet,
And thus I cook'd her goose.
* * * * *