Marcenas.—He is a Kelt, from Keltville, and a poet to boot.
The Poet arises and reads
A BUNCH OF ROSES.
Sweet rose! In thee the summer bides;
Thy deep, red breast a secret hides,
Which none may know but only she
Whose eyes are stars lit up for me.
Red rose! Unto her sweetly speak,
And glow against her burning cheek;
Ah! breathe this in her shell-like ear,—
“Thou makest it summer all the year.”
Spurius Lartius.—I should imagine the rose to be a waiter, from the instruction to “breathe in her shell-like ear.”
Poet.—A moment. There is a third stanza to this poem, written on receiving the florist’s bill:—
Great Scott! List to my heart’s dull thud!
Thou hast a dollar cost a bud.
She is now my rival’s bride;
Again I’ll wear that ulster tried.
The President.—And now the gentleman at the end of the long table will tell one of his inimitable anecdotes.