When I met you in the lordly local ball-room,
Where you queen'd it, the suburban world's desire,
Though your programme for my name had left but small room,
I somehow snatched five valses from the fire.
And I did stout supper-service for your mother,
While you wove the self-same spells o'er many another,
And I said, no doubt, the sort of things that they did,
In the shaded
Little nook beneath the palms upon the stair,
To my fair.
But I noticed, as I learned to know you better,
And you ceased to wile the victim at your feet,
There was very little silk about the fetter,
And 'twere flattery to say your sway was sweet:
Nay, you made the light and airy shrine of beauty
A centre for the most exacting duty,
And the fealty of the family undoubting
Met with flouting,
As a tribute which was nothing but your due,
As they knew.
Your Papa is getting elderly and bulky,
And he loves you as the apple of his eye,
Yet very little things will make you sulky,
And to meet his little ways you never try.
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