While you, with the power to string rhyme together,
Have ne’er penned a stanza to her you adore.”
So spoke mine own Annie, and hurriedly hiding
Her head in my bosom, the tears ’gan to flow:
So I hastened to soothe her, her anger deriding,
And pressed with my lips her fair forehead of snow.
But no peace could be made, e’en by dint of embraces,
Till I owned my sad error again and again;
And when I’d dispelled sorrow’s lingering traces,
I made my defence in the following strain:—