But now, True Love, you’re growing old— Bought and sold, with silver and gold, Like a house, or a horse and carriage! Midnight talks, Moonlight walks, The glance of the eye and sweetheart sigh, The shadowy haunts with no one by, I do not wish to disparage; But every kiss Has a price for its bliss, In the modern code of marriage; And the compact sweet Is not complete, Till the high contracting parties meet Before the altar of Mammon; And the bride must be led to a silver bower, Where pearls and rubies fall in a shower That would frighten Jupiter Ammon! I need not tell How it befell, (Since Jenkins has told the story Over and over and over again, In a style I cannot hope to attain, And covered himself with glory!) How it befell, one Summer’s day, The King of the Cubans strolled this way,— King January’s his name, they say,— And fell in love with the Princess May, The reigning belle of Manhattan; Nor how he began to smirk and sue, And dress as lovers who come to woo, Or as Max Maretzek and Jullien do, When they sit, full-bloomed, in the ladies’ view, And flourish the wondrous baton. He wasn’t one of your Polish nobles, Whose presence their country somehow troubles, And so our cities receive them; Nor one of your make-believe Spanish grandees, Who ply our daughters with lies and candies, Until the poor girls believe them. No, he was no such charlatan— Count de Hoboken Flash-in-the-pan, Full of gasconade and bravado, But a regular, rich Don Rataplan Santa Claus de la Muscovado Señor Grandissimo Bastinado! His was the rental of half Havana And all Matanzas; and Santa Anna, Rich as he was, could hardly hold A candle to light the mines of gold Our Cuban owned, choke-full of diggers; And broad plantations, that, in round figures, Were stocked with at least five thousand niggers! “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may!” The Señor swore to carry the day, To capture the beautiful Princess May, With his battery of treasure; Velvet and lace she should not lack; Tiffany, Haughwout, Ball & Black, Genin and Stewart, his suit should back, And come and go at her pleasure; Jet and lava—silver and gold— Garnets—emeralds rare to behold— Diamonds—sapphires—wealth untold— All were hers, to have and to hold; Enough to fill a peck-measure! He didn’t bring all his forces on At once, but like a crafty old Don, Who many a heart had fought and won, Kept bidding a little higher; And every time he made his bid, And what she said, and all they did— ’Twas written down, For the good of the town, By Jeems, of _The Daily Flyer_.