My uncle Philip, hale old man, Has children by the dozen; Tom, Ned, and Jack, and Kate, and Ann— How many call me “cousin”? Good boys and girls, the best was Bess; I bore her on my shoulder, A little bit of loveliness That never should grow older! Her eyes had such a pleading way, They seemed to say, “Don’t strike me;” Then, growing bold, another day, “I mean to make you like me.” I liked my cousin, early, late; Who likes not little misses? She used to meet me at the gate, Just old enough for kisses. This was, I think, three years ago,— Before I went to college; I learned one thing there,—how to row, A healthy sort of knowledge. When I was plucked (we won the race), And all was at an end there, I thought of Uncle Philip’s place, And every country friend there. My cousin met me at the gate; She looked five, ten years older,— A tall young woman, still, sedate, With manners coyer, colder. She gave her hand with stately pride: “Why, what a greeting this is! You used to kiss me.” She replied, “I am too old for kisses.” I loved, I love my cousin Bess; She’s always in my mind now,— A full-blown bud of loveliness, The rose of womankind now: She must have suitors; old and young Must bow their heads before her; Vows must be made, and songs be sung, By many a mad adorer! But I must win her; she must give To me her youth and beauty; And I—to love her while I live Will be my happy duty; For she will love me soon or late, And be my bliss of blisses, Will come to meet me at the gate, Nor be too old for kisses! WEDDING SONG. [Polonaise.] Three suitors were with me to-day; They proffered love and treasure. The lordly one gave pleasant words, And many ells of ribbon; The second, plain of face and form, He counted coin and jewels; The third presented roses three, And coupled them with kisses. The first I fancied, and would greet Him warmly, as a brother; The second, gladly him I’d choose To be my nearest neighbor; But, oh, the third, of rosy gifts, Who stifled me with kisses,— I’d give to him these longing eyes, And all that life possesses. THE KISS AT THE DOOR. When I took my leave last night, Nellie—she could do no more— Softly brought a candle-light Just to show me to the door. How it was I cannot tell, When I felt her hand in mine, Something said, “Why not as well Press her pretty lips to thine?” Then I clasped one hand quite tight,— T’other held the light, you know,— So that Nellie, helpless quite, Felt she couldn’t say me “No.” But she gave a little scream, That did ne’er the bliss deny; And—too brief the happy dream— In went she, and out went I. A KISS.