With my Alfred for hours at ecarté I played,
And his meerschaum I lit, and his coffee I made.
When, the night we'd a box at St. Jullien's last bal,
And—goodness knows why—you deserted the salle,
I gave you a smile when you chose to appear,
Nor asked whom you knew on that horrid top tier.
Why won't you, dear Al, by mamma be advised?
A wife who don't pout, Al, deserves to be prized—
So to Constance and Rome Adelina you'll take,
Or a nice piece of work that young person will make.