LEST MEN FORGET;
Or, A Girl's best Friend is the River
[This is to be a river season. Father Thames is an excellent matchmaker.—Lady's Pictorial.]
Oh, what is a maid to do
When never a swain will woo;
When Viennese dresses
And eddying tresses
And eyes of a heavenly blue,
Are treated with high disdain
By the cold and the careless swain,
When soft showered glances
At dinners and dances
Are sadly but truly vain?
Ah, then, must a maid despair?
Ah, no, but betimes repair
With her magical tresses
And summery dresses
To upper Thames reaches, where
She turns her wan cheek to the sun
(Of lesser swains she will none);
Her glorious flame,
Well skilled in the game,
Flings kisses that burn like fun
And cheeks that had lost their charm
Grow rosy and soft and warm;
Eyes lately so dull
Of sun-light are full
As masculine hearts with alarm.
For jealousy by degrees
Steals over the swain who sees
The cheek he was slighting
Another delighting,
And so he is brought to his knees.
