  POOR Rose! I lift you from the street,— Far better I should own you Than you should lie for random feet Where careless hands have thrown you. Poor pinky petals, crushed and torn! Did heartless Mayfair use you, Then cast you forth to lie forlorn, I saw you last in Edith’s hair, Rose, you would scarce discover That I she passed upon the stair Was Edith’s favoured lover. A month—“a little month”—ago— O theme for moral writer!— ’Twixt you and me, my Rose, you know, She might have been politer; But let that pass. She gave you then— Behind the oleander— To one, perhaps, of all the men— Who best could understand her,— Cyril, that, duly flattered, took, As only Cyril’s able, With just the same Arcadian look He used, last night, for Mabel; Then, having waltzed till every star Had paled away in morning, Lit up his cynical cigar, And tossed you downward, scorning. Kismet, my Rose! Revenge is sweet,— She made my heart strings quiver; And yet—You sha’n’t lie in the street; I’ll drop you in the river. Austin Dobson. |
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