To a Soubrette

’T IS years, soubrette, since last we met;

And yet—ah, yet, how swift and tender

My thoughts go back in time’s dull track

To you, sweet pink of female gender!

I shall not say—though others may—

That time all human joy enhances;

But the same old thrill comes to me still

With memories of your songs and dances.

Soubrettish ways these latter days

Invite my praise, but never get it;

I still am true to yours and you—

My record’s made, I’ll not upset it!

The pranks they play, the things they say—

I’d blush to put the like on paper,

And I’ll avow they don’t know how

To dance, so awkwardly they caper!

I used to sit down in the pit

And see you flit like elf or fairy

Across the stage, and I’ll engage

No moonbeam sprite was half so airy;

Lo, everywhere about me there

Were rivals reeking with pomatum,

And if, perchance, they caught your glance

In song or dance, how did I hate ’em.

At half-past ten came rapture—then

Of all those men was I most happy,

For bottled-beer and royal cheer

And têtes-à-têtes were on the tapis.

Do you forget, my fair soubrette,

Those suppers at the Café Rector,—

The cosy nook where we partook

Of sweeter cheer than fabled nectar?

Oh, happy days, when youth’s wild ways

Knew every phase of harmless folly!

Oh, blissful nights, whose fierce delights

Defied gaunt-featured Melancholy!

Gone are they all beyond recall,

And I—a shade, a mere reflection—

Am forced to feed my spirit’s greed

Upon the husks of introspection!

And lo! to-night, the phantom light,

That, as a sprite, flits on the fender,

Reveals a face whose girlish grace

Brings back the feeling, warm and tender;

And, all the while, the old-time smile

Plays on my visage, grim and wrinkled,—

As though, soubrette, your footfalls yet

Upon my rusty heart-strings tinkled!

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