The heart which I lost--it is strange--
I've been told it will yet be my death;
And I think it quite likely I might
Waltz once too often to-night,
In spite of the music and Beth.
Death's a difficult move to arrange.

Pray smoke by the fire, old boy,
And find yourself whiskey and books.
If I should not turn up, then, at two
Or three, you will know I need you.
If I'm dead, you must pardon my looks
As I lie in the ball-room, old boy.




A YOUTH'S SUICIDE.


He handed his life a poisoned draught,
With a scornful smile and a cold, cold glance,
And the merry bystanders loudly laughed
(For the rollicking world was gay!).

He thought she knew not the juice, perchance;
But her tears fell down to her sobbing lips
While the merry-makers turned to the dance
(The world was mocking fate that day!).