Tinkle—tinkle—tinkle—tinkle—tinkle—tinkle!
The red June Roses now are past,
This very day I broke the last—
And now its perfumed breath is hid,
With her, with her, beneath a coffin lid:
Ah—h—h—h—h—h,
There will its petals fall apart,
And wither on her icy heart:—
At three red Roses' Roses' cost
My world was gained, my world was gained
And lost!
Tinkle—tinkle—tinkle—tinkle—tinkle—-tinkle-tink!
"That's a very pretty song, you know," said Jemmie. "I enjoyed that. I wish you'd sing oftener of an evening."
Mary looked round in perplexity.
"I haven't sung after dinner for five years," she reminded him coldly.
"As long as that? Surely not as long ago as that?"
"Five years ago, Jemmie, you asked me if it was necessary every evening to sit down immediately after dinner at the piano."
"I must have had a headache or something," he protested.
"Yet you never noticed that I no longer sang."
"I suppose I took it for granted that you didn't want to sing. But I thoroughly enjoyed it this evening. I don't know, I suppose I was in the mood for singing. Why don't you sing another?"
She lifted the seat of the music-stool, and after rummaging among a pile of tattered songs she found the one she wanted: