My arm will hold thee up, as round and round we glide;
Asphalte, I know, is hard, so it will always be,
But if you feel you must fall, dearest, fall on me.”
I could not listen more, I had no time to stay
But ponder’d o’er the scene as home I took my way;
Methought the servant-maid who oped the door did shrink,
For all I muttered was, “Rink, pretty creature, rink.”
A. W. Mackenzie (Author of Idyls of the Rink).
From Mirth. May, 1887.
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