What stripling, flowered and scent-bedewed,
Now courts thee in what solitude?
For whom dost thou in order set
Thy tresses' aureole, Coquette.

"Neat, but not gaudy"?--Soon Despond
(Too soon!) at flouted faith and fond,
Soon tempests halcyon tides above
Shall wreck this raw recruit of Love;

Who counts for gold each tinsel whim,
And hopes thee always all for him,
And trusts thee, smiling, spite of doom
And traitorous breezes! Hapless, whom

Thy glamour holds untried. For me,
I've dared enough that fitful sea;
Its "breach of promise" grim hath curst
Both purse and person with its worst.

My "dripping weeds" are doffed; and I
Sit "landed," like my wine, and "dry;"
What "weeds" survive I smoke, and rub
My hands in harbour at my Club!

* * * * *

OPERATIC NOTES.