“My Kate, at the Waterloo Column,
To-morrow, precisely at eight;
Remember, thy promise was solemn,
And — thine till to-morrow, my Kate!”
That evening seemed strangely to linger,—
The licence and luggage were packed;
And Time, with a long and short finger,
Approvingly marked me exact.
Arrived, woman's constancy blessing,
No end of nice people I see;
Some hither, some thitherwards pressing,—
But none of them waiting for me.
Time passes, my watch how I con it!
I see her — she's coming — no, stuff!
Instead of Kate's smart little bonnet,
It is aunt, and her wonderful muff!
( Yes, Fortune deserves to be chidden,
It is a coincidence queer,
Whenever one wants to be hidden,
One's relatives always appear. )
Near nine! how the passers despise me,
They smile at my anguish, I think;
And even the sentinel eyes me,
And tips that policeman the wink.
Ah! Kate made me promises solemn,
At eight she had vowed to be mine;—
While waiting for one at this column,
I find I've been waiting for nine.
O Fame! on thy pillar so steady,
Some dupes watch beneath thee in vain:—
How many have done it already!
How many will do it again!