Kiss me softly, and speak to me low;
Trust me, darling, the time is near,
When we may love with never a fear.
Kiss me, dear!
Kiss me softly, and speak to me low.
In the spring of 1888 it was asserted of Congressman Lewis E. McComas, of Maryland, that he was the king of baby-kissers, having reduced baby-kissing to a fine art. The proceeding was something like this: First of all, Mr. McComas stands over the baby, and beams on it with his large, tender, hazel eyes. Then, as if moved by a sudden and irresistible impulse of affection, he snatches the little one to his bosom with all the fervor of the deserted stage mother. After pressing it for a moment with head bowed in emotion, he holds it in front of him in a horizontal position, beams once more on the little face; then his head slowly descends, there is an agonizing pause before the big moustache reaches the little lips, the angels hovering about suspend the flapping of their wings, a long-drawn sigh of joy proceeds from the Congressman’s breast, a low, sweet, lingering, honey-suggesting smack is heard—and the deed is done.
There used to be a minstrel ballad describing the wedding of our simian ancestor. It was said:
The monkey married the baboon’s sister,
Smacked his lips, and then he kissed her—
Kissed so hard he raised a blister—