  OLD hymn-book, sure I thought I’d lost you In the days now long gone by; I’d forgotten where I tossed you: Gracious! how I sigh. In the church a thin partition Stood between her pew and mine; And her pious, sweet contrition Struck me as divine. Yes, remarkably entrancing Was she in her sable furs; And my eyes were always glancing Up, old book, to hers. Bless you, very well she knew it, And I’m sure she liked it too; Once she whispered, “Please don’t do it,” How to speak—to tell my passion? How to make her think me true? Love soon found a curious fashion, For he spoke through you. How I used to search your pages For the words I wished to say; And received my labour’s wages Every Sabbath day. Ah, how sweet it was to hand her You, with lines I’d marked when found! And how well I’d understand her When she blushed and frowned. And one day, old book, you wriggled From my hand and, rattling fell Upon the floor; and she—she giggled, Did Miss Isabel. Then when next we met out walking, I was told in fearful tones, How she’d got a dreadful talking From the Reverend Jones. Ah me! No man could resist her In those sweet and buried years, So I think—I think I kissed her, Jones I gave a good sound chaffing; Called his sermon dry as bones; Soon fair Isabel was laughing— Said she hated Jones. It was after that I lost you, For I needed you no more; Somewhere—anywhere I tossed you On a closet floor. Reverend Samuel still preaches; Isabel her past atones; In his Sunday-school she teaches— Mrs. Samuel Jones. W. J. Henderson. |
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