“My Kate, at the Waterloo column,
To-morrow, precisely at eight;
Remember, thy promise was solemn,
And—thine till to-morrow, my Kate!”

* * * * *

That evening seem’d strangely to linger,
The licence and luggage were packt,
And Time, with a long and short finger,
Approvingly mark’d me exact.

Arrived, woman’s constancy blessing,
No end of nice people I see,
Some hither, some thitherwards pressing,
But none of them waiting for me.

Time passes, my watch how I con it,
I see her—she’s coming—no, stuff!
Instead of Kate’s smart little bonnet,
It is aunt and her wonderful muff!

(Yes! Fortune deserves to be chidden,
It is a coincidence queer,
Whenever one wants to be hidden,
One’s relatives always appear.)

Near nine! how the passers despise me,
They smile at my anguish, I think;
And even the sentinel eyes me,
And tips that policeman the wink.

Ah! Kate made me promises solemn,
At eight she had vow’d to be mine;
While waiting for one at this column,
I find I’ve been waiting for nine.

O Fame! on thy pillar so steady,
Some dupes watch beneath thee in vain:
How many have done it already!
How many will do it again!