LA
BELLE TROMBONISTE
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How
grave she sits and toots
In
the glare!
From her dainty bits of boots
To
her hair
Not the sign remotest shows
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5 |
If she
either cares or knows
How the beer-imbibing beaux
Sit
and stare.
They’re most prodigal with sighs,
Or
they laugh;
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10 |
Or they
cast adoring eyes
As
they quaff.
They exert their every wile
Her attention to beguile.
Do they ever win a smile?
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15 |
| Not
by half!
She leans upon her chin
(Not
a toot!),
While the leading violin
And
the flute
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20 |
Wail
and plead in low duet
Till, it may be, eyes are wet.
She her trombone doth forget—
She
is mute.
The music louder grows;
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25 |
She’s
awake!
She applies her lips and blows—
Goodness
sake! . . . . .
To think that such a peal
From such throat and frame ideal,
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30 |
From
such tender lips could steal—
Takes
the cake!
The dinning cymbals shrill
Kiss
and clash.
Drum and kettle-drum at will
|
35 |
Roll
and crash.
But that trombone over all
Toots unto my heart a call;—
Maid petite, and trombone tall—
It’s
a mash!
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40 |
Yet, I hesitate—for lo,
What
a pout!
She’s poetic; and I know
I
am stout.
In her little room would she
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45 |
On her
trombone, tenderly,
Sit and toot as thus to me?—
Ah,
I doubt!
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