This kiss upon your fan I press,
Ah! Saint Nitouche, you don't refuse it,
And may it from its soft recess,
This kiss upon your fan I press
Be blown to you a shy caress
By this white down whene'er you use it;
This kiss upon your fan I press,
Ah! Saint Nitouche, you don't refuse it.
II.
What she thought.
To kiss a fan!
What a poky poet!
The stupid man
To kiss a fan,
When he knows that—he—can,
Or ought to know it.
To kiss a fan!
What a poky poet!
Harrison Robertson.
SIX TRIOLETS.
DEAR READER.
If you never write verses yourself,
Dear reader, I leave it with you,
You will grant a half-inch of your shelf,
If you never write verses yourself.
It was praised by some lenient elf,
It was damned by a heavy review;
If you never write verses yourself,
Dear reader, I leave it with you.
TRANSPONTINE.
Ices—Programmes—Lemonade!
'E thinks 'e's a Hirving, my eye!
Why, Pussy, you're crying: afraid?
Ices—Programmes—Lemonade!
It's the first time you've seen a piece played?
Its pretty, but, Pussy, don't cry.
Ices—Programmes—Lemonade!
'E thinks 'e's a Hirving, my eye!