Where'er she goes, She loves to pose, In classic attitudes, And droop her eyes in languid wise, and feign abstracted moods; And she, my child, Who all so wild, So helpless and so sweet, That once she knew not what to do with those great big hands and feet, Now comes and goes with such repose, so calmly sits or stands, Is so discreet with both her feet, so deft with both her hands. Why, when I see that satire on me, I give an angry start, And I utter one word--it is commonly heard--derogatory to Delsarte. In years gone by 't was said that I was quite a scrumptious man; Conceit galore had I before this Delsarte craze began; But now these wise Folks criticise My figure and my face, And I opine they even incline to sneer at my musical bass. Why, sometimes they presume to say this wart upon my cheek Is not refined, and remarks unkind they pass on that antique,-- With lusty bass and charms of face and figure will I part Ere they extort this grand old wart to placat their Delsarte. Oh, wretched day! as all shall say who've known my Muse before, When by this rhyme you see that I'm not in it any more. Good-by the mirth that over earth diffused such keen delight; The old-time bard Of pork and lard Is plainly out of sight. All withered now about his brow the laurel fillets droop, While Lachesis brews For the poor old Muse A portion of scalding soup. Engrave this line, O friends of mine! over my broken heart: "He hustled and strove, and fancied he throve, till his daughter learned Delsarte." BUTTERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME-NOT. Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not,-- These three bloomed in a garden spot; And once, all merry with song and play, A little one heard three voices say: "Shine or shadow, summer or spring, O thou child with the tangled hair And laughing eyes, we three shall bring Each an offering, passing fair!" The little one did not understand; But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand. Buttercup gambolled all day long, Sharing the little one's mirth and song; Then, stealing along on misty gleams, Poppy came, bringing the sweetest dreams, Playing and dreaming, that was all, Till once the sleeper would not awake; Kissing the little face under the pall, We thought of the words the third flower spake, And we found, betimes, in a hallowed spot, The solace and peace of Forget-me-not.