Out of the smoke there are statues carved,
And daring dreamers their day-dreams spin;
For never a poet’s soul has starved
On the notes of a table d’hote violin.
At that table yonder, perchance, was born
A sonnet that brought the singer fame—
And there, in a jacket frayed and worn,
Nightly, a world-known painter came.
Here, once reveled a popular wit,
There, a composer, now rich and fat,
Here, a diva—just think of that!—
Flirted and laughed, ’neath a home-made hat!
Where are they now? Who knows? Alas!
Dining, perhaps, in a dinner coat,
Sipping champagne from a rich man’s glass—
For Success sits not at the table d’hote.
But what does it matter to us, I say!
This is “Going-to-be” and not “Has-been”—
The Land of “To-morrow,” not “Yesterday,”
Is the Sign of the Cheap Table d’Hote—Come in!
“Hello!”
_by John Edward Hazzard._
“Hello, girl!”
“Hello, boy!”
Thus with hand-clasp was our greeting,
Seems as though at our first meeting.
“Hello, girl!” and oh, what gladness
In her echo, “Hello, boy!”
“Hello, girl!”
“Hello, boy!”
This, and then a moment’s kissing,
Gave us what in life was missing;
“Hello, girl!” and oh, what madness
In her echo, “Hello, boy!”
“Good-by, girl!”
“Good-by, boy!”
Thus we spoke it at our parting,
Just a little tear was smarting;
“Good-by, girl!” and oh, what sadness
In her echo, “Good-by, boy!”