The music-master fumbled over a hackneyed prelude to show his command of the instrument.
Miss Riley whispered to her mamma that it was out of one of her first books of lessons.
Mrs. Flanagan, with a seductive smirk, asked, "what he was going to give them?" The poet replied, "a little thing of his own—'Rosalie; or, the Broken Heart,'—sentimental, but rather sad."
The musical skeleton rattled his bones against the ivory in a very one, two, three, four symphony; the poet ran his fingers through his hair, pulled up his collar, gave his head a jaunty nod, and commenced:
ROSALIE;
OR, THE BROKEN HEART.
Fare thee—fare thee well—alas!
Fare—farewell to thee!
On pleasure's wings, as dew-drops fade,
Or honey stings the bee,