'Tis years, soubrette, since last we met;And yet—ah, yet, how swift and tenderMy thoughts go back in time's dull trackTo you, sweet pink of female gender!I shall not say—though others may—That time all human joy enhances;But the same old thrill comes to me stillWith memories of your songs and dances.
Soubrettish ways these latter daysInvite my praise, but never get it;I still am true to yours and you—My record's made, I'll not upset it!The pranks they play, the things they say—I'd blush to put the like on paper,And I'll avow they don't know howTo dance, so awkwardly they caper!
I used to sit down in the pitAnd see you flit like elf or fairyAcross the stage, and I'll engageNo moonbeam sprite was half so airy;Lo, everywhere about me thereWere rivals reeking with pomatum,And if, perchance, they caught your glanceIn song or dance, how did I hate 'em!
At half-past ten came rapture—thenOf all those men was I most happy,For bottled beer and royal cheerAnd têtes-à-têtes were on the tapis.Do you forget, my fair soubrette,Those suppers at the Cafe Rector,—The cosey nook where we partookOf sweeter cheer than fabled nectar?
Oh, happy days, when youth's wild waysKnew every phase of harmless folly!Oh, blissful nights, whose fierce delightsDefied gaunt-featured Melancholy!Gone are they all beyond recall,And I—a shade, a mere reflection—Am forced to feed my spirit's greedUpon the husks of retrospection!
And lo! to-night, the phantom light,That, as a sprite, flits on the fender,Reveals a face whose girlish graceBrings back the feeling, warm and tender;And, all the while, the old-time smilePlays on my visage, grim and wrinkled,—As though, soubrette, your footfalls yetUpon my rusty heart-strings tinkled!
Last night, my darling, as you slept,I thought I heard you sigh,And to your little crib I crept,And watched a space thereby;And then I stooped and kissed your brow,For oh! I love you so—You are too young to know it now,But some time you shall know!
Some time when, in a darkened placeWhere others come to weep,Your eyes shall look upon a faceCalm in eternal sleep,The voiceless lips, the wrinkled brow,The patient smile shall show—You are too young to know it now,But some time you may know!
Look backward, then, into the years,And see me here to-night—See, O my darling! how my tearsAre falling as I write;And feel once more upon your browThe kiss of long ago—You are too young to know it now,But some time you shall know.
End of Project Gutenberg's A Little Book of Western Verse, by Eugene Field