Waiting for the Mail.It is strange I get no letter—I have written twenty-four—And the chances now decidedly are slim;How I wish my luck was better,I am really feeling sore,And my cup of sorrow’s flowing to the brim.Though my sweetheart’s tall and slender,With a dark and roguish eye,And a blushing cheek that shames the blooming rose.One more letter will I send her,Then I’ll write a last good-bye,And so bring my dream of pleasure to a close.If she’s caught another lover,Just to make the moments glide,(Which, without a doubt, she really thinks she ought,)Then, of course, I’ll look it over,And continue to confide—For the best of mortals like a little sport!But suppose this other fellowShould, with sly and skillful art,In the darling girl’s affections fill my place!’Tis enough to make me bellow,—’Tis enough to break my heart,—’Tis enough to make me run and hide my face.When we parted last December,Oh, she vowed she’d share my lot;And to me her silence is a puzzle quite:Though I happen to remember—And ’tis strange that I forgot—That my darling ducky never learned to write!—George M. Vickers.
It is strange I get no letter—I have written twenty-four—And the chances now decidedly are slim;How I wish my luck was better,I am really feeling sore,And my cup of sorrow’s flowing to the brim.Though my sweetheart’s tall and slender,With a dark and roguish eye,And a blushing cheek that shames the blooming rose.One more letter will I send her,Then I’ll write a last good-bye,And so bring my dream of pleasure to a close.If she’s caught another lover,Just to make the moments glide,(Which, without a doubt, she really thinks she ought,)Then, of course, I’ll look it over,And continue to confide—For the best of mortals like a little sport!But suppose this other fellowShould, with sly and skillful art,In the darling girl’s affections fill my place!’Tis enough to make me bellow,—’Tis enough to break my heart,—’Tis enough to make me run and hide my face.When we parted last December,Oh, she vowed she’d share my lot;And to me her silence is a puzzle quite:Though I happen to remember—And ’tis strange that I forgot—That my darling ducky never learned to write!—George M. Vickers.
It is strange I get no letter—I have written twenty-four—And the chances now decidedly are slim;How I wish my luck was better,I am really feeling sore,And my cup of sorrow’s flowing to the brim.Though my sweetheart’s tall and slender,With a dark and roguish eye,And a blushing cheek that shames the blooming rose.One more letter will I send her,Then I’ll write a last good-bye,And so bring my dream of pleasure to a close.If she’s caught another lover,Just to make the moments glide,(Which, without a doubt, she really thinks she ought,)Then, of course, I’ll look it over,And continue to confide—For the best of mortals like a little sport!But suppose this other fellowShould, with sly and skillful art,In the darling girl’s affections fill my place!’Tis enough to make me bellow,—’Tis enough to break my heart,—’Tis enough to make me run and hide my face.When we parted last December,Oh, she vowed she’d share my lot;And to me her silence is a puzzle quite:Though I happen to remember—And ’tis strange that I forgot—That my darling ducky never learned to write!—George M. Vickers.
It is strange I get no letter—
I have written twenty-four—
And the chances now decidedly are slim;
How I wish my luck was better,
I am really feeling sore,
And my cup of sorrow’s flowing to the brim.
Though my sweetheart’s tall and slender,With a dark and roguish eye,And a blushing cheek that shames the blooming rose.One more letter will I send her,Then I’ll write a last good-bye,And so bring my dream of pleasure to a close.
Though my sweetheart’s tall and slender,
With a dark and roguish eye,
And a blushing cheek that shames the blooming rose.
One more letter will I send her,
Then I’ll write a last good-bye,
And so bring my dream of pleasure to a close.
If she’s caught another lover,Just to make the moments glide,(Which, without a doubt, she really thinks she ought,)Then, of course, I’ll look it over,And continue to confide—For the best of mortals like a little sport!
If she’s caught another lover,
Just to make the moments glide,
(Which, without a doubt, she really thinks she ought,)
Then, of course, I’ll look it over,
And continue to confide—
For the best of mortals like a little sport!
But suppose this other fellowShould, with sly and skillful art,In the darling girl’s affections fill my place!’Tis enough to make me bellow,—’Tis enough to break my heart,—’Tis enough to make me run and hide my face.
But suppose this other fellow
Should, with sly and skillful art,
In the darling girl’s affections fill my place!
’Tis enough to make me bellow,—
’Tis enough to break my heart,—
’Tis enough to make me run and hide my face.
When we parted last December,Oh, she vowed she’d share my lot;And to me her silence is a puzzle quite:Though I happen to remember—And ’tis strange that I forgot—That my darling ducky never learned to write!—George M. Vickers.
When we parted last December,
Oh, she vowed she’d share my lot;
And to me her silence is a puzzle quite:
Though I happen to remember—
And ’tis strange that I forgot—
That my darling ducky never learned to write!
—George M. Vickers.