Sparking Sunday Night.

Sitting in a corner, on a Sunday eve,

With a taper finger resting on your sleeve;

Starlight eyes are casting on your face their light;

Bless me, this is pleasant—sparking Sunday night!

CHORUS.

Bless me, ain’t it pleasant,

Sparking Sunday night?

How your heart is thumping ’gainst your Sunday vest,

How wickedly ’tis working on this day of rest!

Hours seem but minutes, as they take their flight,

Bless me, ain’t it pleasant, sparking Sunday night?

Dad and Mam are sleeping, on their peaceful bed,

Dreaming of the things the folks in meeting said.

“Love ye one another,” ministers recite;

Bless me, DON’T we do it—sparking Sunday night?

One arm with gentle pressure lingers round her waist,

You squeeze her dimpled hand, her pouting lips you taste,

She freely slaps your face, but more in love than spite;

Oh, thunder! ain’t it pleasant—sparking Sunday night?

But hark! the clock is striking; it is two o’clock, I snum,

As sure as I’m a sinner, the time to go has COME.

You ask, with spiteful accents, if “that old clock is right!”

And wonder if IT ever—sparked on Sunday night!

One, two, three sweet kisses; four, five, six, you hook;

But, thinking that you rob her, give back those you took;

Then, as for home you hurry, from the fair one’s sight,

Don’t you wish EACH DAY was only Sunday night?