HEY had taken the brightest, the nicest, the best;
They had carefully sorted and sampled the rest;
America’s daughters no quarter had shown,
And but one Duke of Britain was blooming alone.
Belgravian mothers in frenzied despair
Tore out by the roots their luxuriant hair,
And the maidens of Albion shuddered and sighed,
And but for their eyes would have certainly cried.
Every prize of the season had gone to the States,
The American girls had the best of the weights;
The “piles” of the pa’s and their personal charms
Had proved in the battle all-conquering arms.
And now but one Duke there remained to be had.
He was fat, he was fifty, and said to be mad;
But the belles of Great Britain to rescue him swore
From the sirens who hail from Columbia’s shore.
Then the belles of Columbia picked up the glove,
And encouraged his grace to make desperate love;
They crowded Cunarders and weighted White Stars,
And descended on London in drawing-room cars.
But the maidens who flirt ’neath the Union Jack
At the Yankee invasion weren’t taken aback,
Though it must be confessed there were exquisite types
Of feminine flirts ’neath the Stars and the Stripes.
The Duke stood aghast ’twixt the double array,
But endeavoured to all some attention to pay.
First he smiled at a Briton, then ogled a Yank,
Then bolted, and hailed the first cab on the rank.
He drove to the station, and, catching the train,
He sailed o’er the stormy and murderous main.
He landed at Calais and fell at the feet
Of the first pretty French girl he met in the street.
He asked for her hand, and the maiden replied,
“Avec plaisir, m’sieu. Here’s a church; step inside.”
They were married at once, and next day they set sail
By the London and Chatham’s first outgoing mail.