THE LOVERS’ QUARREL

(By Roland Rare and Letha Lane.)

Roland—

Letha Lane, why! Letha Lane,

Now I beg you to explain

Why so many things you say

In that tantalizing way;

Why you sigh,

’Tend to cry,

When no tears are in your eye.

Letha—

I could tell you, Roland Rare,

Things of which you’re well aware,

That you’d hardly care to hear;

Things that sometimes bring a tear

To my eye,

Though I try

Not to let you know I cry.

Roland—

Letha Lane, now I would fain

Know the reason you disdain

To express your thoughts at all—

Any time I’m asked to call,

I appear,

Then I fear

You are vexed that I am near.

Letha—

Roland Rare, how can you dare

Look at me with such an air?

So it seems I called you then,

Oh! how long ago that’s been!

Not this year,

And I fear

’Twas no other time, my dear.

Roland Rare!
Letha Lane!
Both—I will tell you once again,
If you do not cease your fooling,
You will find my fond love cooling,
Though it seems you do not care,
Letha Lane!
Roland Rare!

Roland—

Letha Lane, it is so plain

That your love is on the wane,

And ’tis time to say good-bye;

I shall go away and try

To forget

That we met,

Though this parting brings regret.

Letha—

Now I ask you, Roland Rare,

Do you think that it is fair

Thus to leave me as you say,

Leave me when I feel this way,

While I sigh

And I cry

With real tear-drops in my eye?

Roland—

Letha! Why now, Letha Lane!

Did you think me so insane?

Never meant a word of it;

I was fooling, too, a bit—

Do not sigh,

Do not cry,

Why! real tears are in your eye.

Roland Rare!
Letha Lane!
Both—We must never quarrel again.
If we do not cease our fooling,
We will find our fond love cooling,
Then, Oh! then, we both will care;
Letha Lane!
Roland Rare!

“I’m thinking of something I never will tell,”

Came a whispering voice. “Oh, we know it as well,”

Piped a dozen small voices. “You mean about Tim?”

“Oh, every one knows ’bout the Timorous him,

They say he’s in love with Celina.” “Oh, no,

Why Tim was in love with Jeannette, don’t you know?”

“Jeannette, who was married a few weeks ago?”

“Yes, he loved her, I’m sure, for Jeannette told me so.”

“She told us the same, so we know it as well,

But we’re glad that you told us. We never will tell.”

Then they would have a song from the dolorous Tim,

And it seemed there was nothing to do but for him

To sing them a song that had broken his heart;

He never could sing it but salt tears would start

To his tender blue eyes. Tim Dolor began,

And the dancers all witnessed the tears as they ran

To his chin, where they dangled a moment, then—fell

On the floor, and the dancers all knew very well

That the words of the song were the sad solemn truth,

And every one pitied the heart-broken youth.