Those dark eyes of hers that fired him, Those sweet accents that inspired him, And her crown of glorious hair,-- These things baffle my description: I should have a fit conniption If I tried; so I forbear. Maybe Lydia had her betters; Anyway, this man of letters Took that charmer as his pick. Glad--yes, glad I am to know it! I, a _fin de siècle_ poet, Sympathize with Lydia Dick! Often in my arbor shady I fall thinking of that lady, And the pranks she used to play; And I'm cheered,--for all we sages Joy when from those distant ages Lydia dances down our way. Otherwise some folks might wonder, With good reason, why in thunder Learned professors, dry and prim, Find such solace in the giddy Pranks that Horace played with Liddy Or that Liddy played on him. Still this world of ours rejoices In those ancient singing voices, And our hearts beat high and quick, To the cadence of old Tiber Murmuring praise of roistering Liber And of charming Lydia Dick. Still Digentia, downward flowing, Prattleth to the roses blowing By the dark, deserted grot. Still Soracte, looming lonely, Watcheth for the coming only Of a ghost that cometh not. LIZZIE. I WONDER ef all wimmin air Like Lizzie is when we go out To theaters an' concerts where Is things the papers talk about. Do other wimmin fret an' stew Like they wuz bein' crucified,-- Frettin' a show or concert through, With wonderin' ef the baby cried? Now Lizzie knows that gran'ma's there To see that everything is right; Yet Lizzie thinks that gran'ma's care Ain't good enuff f'r baby, quite. Yet what am I to answer when She kind uv fidgets at my side, An' asks me every now an' then, "I wonder ef the baby cried"? Seems like she seen two little eyes A-pinin' f'r their mother's smile; Seems like she heern the pleadin' cries Uv one she thinks uv all the while; An' so she's sorry that she come. An' though she allus tries to hide The truth, she'd ruther stay to hum Than wonder ef the baby cried. Yes, wimmin folks is all alike-- By Lizzie you kin jedge the rest; There never wuz a little tyke, But that his mother loved him best. And nex' to bein' what I be-- The husband uv my gentle bride-- I'd wisht I wuz that croodlin' wee, With Lizzie wonderin' ef I cried. LITTLE HOMER'S SLATE.