Tabitha, sweet Tabitha, I never can forget,

Nor how the music sounded, nor how our glances met,

When underneath the swinging lamps we danced the

minuet.

The stately bow, the dainty poise, and in the music

slips.

Did she linger for a moment, while I held her finger

tips,

And wondered if she'd ever let me touch them to my

lips?

And Tabitha wore powdered hair and dressed in quaint

brocade,

A tiny patch on either cheek just where the dimple

played;

The little shoe I noticed too, and clocks, I am afraid.

The music ceased. I led her softly smiling to the door.

A pause, a rustling courtesy down almost to the floor,

And Tabitha, sweet Tabitha, mine eyes beheld no more.

I've trod in many measures since with widow, wife, and

maid,

In every kind of satin, silk, and spangled lace arrayed,

And through it all have heard the fall of Tabitha's

brocade.