LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
My Angelina once enjoyed
The mild lawn-tennis all the day,
And did not scorn to be employed
In croquet's unexciting fray;
O truly happy seasons, when
I think of you, I wish you back,
For Angelina had not then
Become a golfing maniac!
But now of none of these she thinks,
All such pursuits she reckons "slow,"
And spends the days upon the links,
Where nevermore I mean to go:
For I recall the heartless snubs,
Which those enchanting lips let fall,
When I demolished several clubs,
And lost my temper, and the ball.
To-day the fickle maid prefers
With young Macduff to pass her time,
Because his "putting," she avers—
Whatever that be—"is sublime;"
And when I get a chance to state
The deep affection felt by me,
She interrupts me to relate
How well she did that hole in three!
I love my Angelina still,
Yet he who chose her as a wife
Would be expected to fulfil
A caddie's duties all his life;
So, if I turn away instead,
You will not hold me much to blame?
How can I woo her? She is wed
Already—to this awful game!
