HE was a dainty lady, with golden hair, and cream

Of roses, her complexion, belike a charming dream.

Her eyes were sapphire lighted, her lips, with peachen bloom,

Paterre of pearls were framing, but in her heart a tomb;

For many loves lay buried, that cemet'ry below—

O fie on it for ladies, with love, to trifle so.

At last unto a stranger, her stony heart, did strike,

His wealth was most romantic, his name was Hiram Smike.

'Twas on her mother's sofa he looked at her, said he,

"I'm kinder sweet on you, love, will you accept of me?

I've travelled half this orange, and never saw your likes;

I calculate you oughter join the wigwams of the Smikes."

His wealth was most romantic, she answered him with tact,

Said he, "I'm off to-morrow, my trunk is ready packed;

I must be off to 'Frisco, to see my corn is barned,

Don't marry in my absence, for if you do, I'm darned!

Now play some tune, that's proper, to show that you're engaged,

Expressive of your promise, and how your heart is caged;

Strike up some soothin ballad, to tell how you'll be true,

And I'll work in a chorus, of Yankee-doodle-do."

Her fairy fingers wandered, along the ivory keys,

Of her new rosewood cottage, like warble thro' the trees;

She sang, that she'd be faithful, all in a soothing strain,

While he worked in a chorus—and then he crossed the main.

It was a level twelve months, a fortnight, and a day,

Since Hiram Smike departed, and yet he stayed away;

But she did wait no longer, and they were back from church,

It was the wedding breakfast, she's left him in the lurch.

"A health unto the bridegroom," and up they rose to drink;

When hark! a cry was uttered that made the lady think;

A voice of an old woman, employed upon that day,

To do some extra tending, "look here," said she, "I say,

I guess you do not know me because I've shaved my chin,

I'm dressed like an old woman, but I'm a man within;

I'm Hiram Smike, your lover, who left the Yankee shore,

To come back here to wed you, I'm darned for evermore.

You've lifted me like thunder, but you shall never boast

Of how you jilted Hiram—I'm off to make a ghost!"

He said, tucked up his flounces, and, fluttering through the door,

He left them all astounded, and he was seen no more.

Next morning in the Dodder, upon the city side,

A man beheld a woman, come floating down the tide.

And far away in London, a bride, and bridegroom fled

From their hotel at midnight—a ghost was round the bed!

They sought a second lodging, but in the room, as host,

Was waiting to receive them that sad, intruding ghost.

Aye, even in the daylight, in Rotten Row, aloud

They heard an awful murmur like water thro' the crowd;

A moan as from neuralgia did on each tympan strike,

"His ghost is on the war path avenging Hiram Smike."

They tried the penny steam-boats, the railway underground,

The busses and the tramcars, but still they always found

That busy ghost around them, their lives could not be worse.

"O thunder!" shrieked the bridegroom, "I'll seek for a divorce."

But when the court was opened, the judge refused to sit,

For every pleading lawyer had got a sneezing fit;

And then there came the earthquake, the ruddy sunsets came,

When lo! quite unexpected, one night, they saw a flame.

A flash like a vesuvian, did by the table strike,

With a Satanic whisper, "You're wanted, Hiram Smike."

And from that curious moment, there is no more to tell,

They're having every comfort, I hear they're doing well.