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.