A dainty thing of silk and lace,
Of feathers, and of paint,
Held often to her laughing face
When I assume the saint.
Too dainty far to mix with these
Old pipes, cigars, and books
Of bachelordom,— rare life of ease,—
Rare friends, rare wines, rare cooks.
‘ Twill smell of stale tobacco smoke
Ere many days I fear,
And hear full many a rattling joke,
And feel, perhaps, a tear.
Why is it here? Alas for me!
I broke it at a ball.
“Apologize — repair it” See?
Five dollars gone,— that's all.