By Ernest (After Owen Meredith.)
January 11, 1865. Vol. 1. No. 15. Page 1
Did you mind, love, when Gerald Lane
Spoke this eve with you
On the veranda, in the air,
How strangely white he grew?
Was he ill, dear? For you know
He’s just fresh from the wards,
And that horrible sabre-thrust
May have given him cause
The curtain’s crimson dyes your cheek,
Mon Ami, sitting there,
Wrapped in your evening linen dress,
And you’re wondrous fair.
You did not know, dearest? But pshaw!
Of course you did not mind,
But I thought, like a jealous boy,
That you seemed very kind
And tender, more kind and tender
Than ever I saw you,
To the wounded Captain. Did he
Years ago, adore you?
For such the tell-tale words did my ears
Listen i’ the dizzy waltz,
And whispers that he proved fickle,
And you, my sweet, were false.
He looked splendidly, to-night,
Rather thin-perhaps too white,
But then, you know, he’s from the wars
And mind as well as I, the cause.
Sleepy love? Well seek your pillow-
What, going, and not kiss?
Perhaps the Captain’s –. Well, good-night,
We should not part like this.
I’ll join you presently, my dear--
No? Well, once more good-night:
You’re strangely out of sorts, it seems;
I’ll smoke awhile; -- good night.