Ah, dear Annette, you are my pet,
The sweetheart that I choose;
Lightly you sip life's duteous booze—
I mean, life's beauteous dews.
And were you mine, my love divine,
I'd praise in verse and prose,
And keep you e'er from wanting hose—
That is, from haunting woes,
As I'm alive, I'd surely strive
To crown your days with peace,
And I would never eat your cheese—
What was it? Cheat your ease.
The warm ripe South made sweet your mouth,
Its kiss who could refuse?
I love to mark its harming chews—
Great smoke! Its charming hues.
When I descry you going by
My daily clerking place,
I love to mark your gritty pace—
I mean, your pretty grace.
Love softly lies in both your eyes,
And do not deem me rash,
If I should love each lying flash—
I mean each flying lash.
Were I a bard of high regard,
I'd time my raptured lays,
And loudly sing your ponderous ways—
That is, your wonderous praise.
But should you frown and cast me down
In disappointment drear,
You'd put me on my burly ear—
I mean my early bier.
A. W. BELLAW, in Time.
Livingston Democrat [Geneseo, NY]. April 24, 1889: 2 col 1.