A tree-toad dressed in apple-green
Sat on a mossy log
Beside a pond, and shrilly sang,
"Come forth, my Polly Wog—
My Pol, my Ly,—my Wog,
My pretty Polly Wog,
I've something very sweet to say,
My slender Polly Wog!
"The air is moist, the moon is hid
Behind a heavy fog;
No stars are out to wink and blink
At you, my Polly Wog—
My Pol, my Ly—my Wog,
My graceful Polly Wog;
Oh, tarry not, beloved one!
My precious Polly Wog!"
Just then away went clouds, and there
A sitting on the log—
The other end I mean—the moon
Showed angry Polly Wog.
Her small eyes flashed, she swelled until
She looked almost a frog;
"How dare you, sir, call me," she asked,
"Your precious Polly Wog?
"Why, one would think you'd spent your life
In some low, muddy bog.
I'd have you know—to strange young men
My name's Miss Mary Wog."
One wild, wild laugh that tree-toad gave,
And tumbled off the log,
And on the ground he kicked and screamed,
"Oh, Mary, Mary Wog.
Oh, May! oh, Ry—oh, Wog!
Oh, proud Miss Mary Wog!
Oh, goodness gracious! what a joke!
Hurrah for Mary Wog!"
"KISS PRETTY POLL!"
BY MARY D. BRINE.
"Kiss Pretty Poll!" the parrot screamed,
And "Pretty Poll," repeated I,
The while I stole a merry glance
Across the room all on the sly,
Where some one plied her needle fast,
Demurely by the window sitting;
But I beheld upon her cheek
A multitude of blushes flitting.
"Kiss Pretty Poll," the parrot coaxed:
"I would, but dare not try," I said,
And stole another glance to see
How some one drooped her golden head,
And sought for something on the floor
(The loss was only feigned, I knew)—
And still, "Kiss Poll," the parrot screamed,
The very thing I longed to do.