HE rose as the morning peeped ruddy and fair
On the verge of the eastern horizon.
He waxed his mustache and pomaded his hair,
And put his most dandified guise on.
Then made a brief pilgrimage out to the square,
And toned up his system with "pizon."
Ah! Spriggins to-day is a sight to be seen!
His beaver is neatly re-pressed;
Each coralline stud is the size of a bean,
And white is no name for his vest;
By the fit of his coat, none-I care not how keen-
That it is not his own can have guessed.
He knows he is looking decidedly well,
For his beard shows assiduous tillage,
And his general style is so gorgeously "swell,"
That he'd hardly be known in the village,
Whence to-day will arrive that bewitching young belle
Whose heart he is anxious to pillage.
Here they come! As the horse-car discharges its freight,
The party he greets one by one;
There are uncles and aunts, some nineteen hundred weight,
And of cousins no less than a ton;
Then the pastor, arriving as usual late,
With his daughter, - our tale is begun.
Belinda her name is, and never so fair
Has she been to our hero, as now;
Her bonnet, arranged with a Frenchified air,
Is perched on the side of her "pow";
And that muslin, with roses looped up here and there,
Seems a robe for a duchess somehow.
* * * * *
At the Chapel they listen attentively through.
Applause? O they freely bestow it!
The parson thinks praise is the orator's due,
And the girls are quite "smashed on" the poet.
Though they know, when compared with what Sammy could do,
That either has little or no wit.
* * * * *
I need not remark there is plenty of dust,
That the wind blows incessant simooms,
That the coffee is cold and the rolls wholly crust,
That Mike has forgotten the spoons,
That the caterer's men have gone off "on a bust,"-
This comes with consecutive Junes.
But a pleasanter feature I have to narrate.
While friends o'er the edibles talk,
While the parson is forcing a battle on fate
By eating warm "ice " with a fork,
Belinda, by Spriggins, is taken in state
Down stairs, for a bit of a walk.
They stroll round the Yard, and evade as they can
The canker-worms' pendulous swing.
What they say is a secret, unless you should scan
In her face, that he asks her something
Which she does n't refuse. Then the ardent young man
Slips on her forefinger a ring.
* * * * *
You will have to imagine the rest of the day,
For Spriggins account is but meagre;
Of the rush round the tree he has nothing to say,
Nor the scramble for flowers, so eager,
Except that he's given his garland away.
To whom? - Go along, you intriguer!
C. A. M.