THE SONG OF THE FLIRT.
WITH bosom weary and worn,
With eyelids painted and red,
A lady, just from a Duchess's ball,
Sat on the side of her bed.
Her sapphires were gleaming and rich,
And faultless her lace and her skirt,
And yet with a voice of dolorous pitch,
She sang the "Song of the Flirt."
"Flirt, flirt, flirt!