Harry stalk'd into my room in a rage--
'Hilton and Wilton have clear'd me out quite;
A run of ill luck at every stage--
Fifty pounds lost since you left us to-night!
I'll have my revenge on the rogues I vow!'
Marks of strange anger disfigure his face,
A dry parch'd lip and a thundery brow,
And a sharp bright eye that has lost its grace.

So a lov'd little hand comes smoothing down--
Wandering kisses can anger eclipse;
The beautiful forehead has ceased to frown,
And sweet is the kiss I find on my lips.

'Ah, dearest,' I whisper, 'mourn not for this,
On a summer day with a heap of flowers;
This cannot be sorrow, or if it is,
It is a sorrow that cannot be ours.'

All the strange passion had vanish'd, I ween;
The Harry I knew had come back again;
And on his sweet face I had never seen
A sweeter smile than illumin'd it then.

With smiles he caress'd me: 'you little thing--
You dear little thing,' he tenderly said;
'We have banish'd you by the cards we bring;
Let us banish cards and have you instead.'