There is very poor pleasure in dancing
In a stuffy hot ball-room in June—
And the Balliol lawn looked entrancing
In the silvery light of the moon.
I fancy the thought had occurred, love,
To somebody else besides me,
For I managed, with scarcely a word, love,
To get you to smile and agree.
We sat on the Balliol lawn, love,
And the hours flew as fast as you please,
Till the rosy-tipped fingers of dawn, love,
Crept over the Trinity trees.
A stranger might say he had never
Heard trash in a vapider key;
But no conversation has ever
Been half so delicious to me.
I seemed to be walking on air, love;
And oh, how I quivered when you
Snipped off a wee lock of your hair, love,
And said you were fond of me too.
I clasped it again and again, love,
To my breast with a passionate vow.
There ever since it has lain, love,
And there it is lying just now.
—But my heart gives a horrible thump, love,
I find myself gasping for air,
For my throat is choked up with a lump, love,
Which surely should never be there.
And I sadly bethink me that life, love,
Won't always run just as we will—
For you are another man's wife, love,
And I am a bachelor still.
Common (Gas) Metre.
"Light metres" there are many,
The lightest of the lot
Is what is called "the Penny-in-the-Slot!"
EMBARRAS DE RICHESSES.
["The Bank Return shows considerable additions to the reserve and the stock of bullion."—"Times," on "Money Market."]