TO A COQUETTE.

Thou dost shoot thy arrow

True, with Cupid's how,

Pretty maid,

Like a chatt'ring sparrow

Wounded, is the beau,

Pretty maid,

On whom thy fatal glance hath chanced but once to fall,

Who rises but to kneel, if perchance he rise at all,

Pretty maid.

I oftentimes do wonder

If in some time to come,

Pretty maid,

A cloud and clash of thunder

Will make thy clime become,

Pretty maid,

As drear, and dark, and gloom, as thou hast often seen

The cheerless skies of other maidens to have been,

Pretty maid.

H. D.