THE STOUT SINGER'S SMILE.
O buxom maiden, blithe and gay,
With movements light and airy,
Some five-and-twenty stone you weigh,
Fair, fat and forty fairy!
A fairy of the music-halls,
Some men might call you ripping;
In tights, and satin coat and smalls,
You enter, gaily skipping.
It is not that which brings me joy,
Nor face, nor form entrances,
It is your smile, so very coy,
Your bashful, girlish glances.
Some twenty years ago, no doubt,
You were a slender maiden,
But now, so long you have been "out,"
With weight of years you're laden.
So when you sing of love-sick grief,
And smile so very sweetly,
I, too, behind my handkerchief,
Smile quite unseen, discreetly.
The more you sing the more you smile,
Stout charmer, winsome, winning,
Dressed like Lord Fauntleroy—meanwhile,
Like Cheshire Cat I'm grinning.
Then comes the end; you curtsy low,
With looks to heaven soaring;
You are extremely funny so,
I'm positively roaring.
They clap, they shout, they thump the floor,
These "gents" serenely smoking,
You kiss your hand, smile yet once more,
And leave me simply choking.