_Though J. H. jeer
And "Smith" incline to frown,
I do not fear
To write these verses down
And publish them in town.
The solemn world knows well that I'm no poet;
So what care I if two gay scoffers know it?
Buck up, my Muse!
Wing high thy skyward way,
And don't refuse
To let me say my say
As bravely as I may.
To praise a lady fair I father verses,
Which Admiration cradles, Homage nurses._
_For you, Suzanne,
Long since have won my heart;
You break it, too,
And leave the same to smart full sore
Whenever you depart for Baltimore.
You're charming;--and in metre I endeavour
To say you are as winsome as you're clever._
_Winsome and wise,
Subtle in maiden's lore,
With wondrous eyes--
Alas for Baltimore,
That grows this rose no more!
As for Manhattan, that benign old vulture
Wins one more prize in fancy horticulture._
_So now to you
I dedicate this tale;
It's neither new
Nor altogether stale,--
Nor can completely fail,
For your bright name as sponsor for my story
Assures the author of reflected glory._
_R. W. C._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]