And tho' it was not proper, To see the Colonel, look With visage of dejection, Upon a humble cook, Yet nature won't be cheated, Despite of high degree. "Adieu; I'll come back worthy, My love, to wed with thee." And that is how they parted, And those, the words he said: And oft, when she was cooking, It came into her head, The promise he had uttered, Of sweetest memory-- "Adieu; I'll come back worthy, My love, to wed with thee." [Illustration: as This Peeves me now at Present] She took a thought one morning, And bought a copy-book; Said she, I'll study pothooks, They're suited for a cook. I'll write his name, in roundhand, A letter, I will send, With the words "no more at present"-- My pet name, at the end. She wrote his name, in roundhand, A letter, she did send, With "No more now at present," Her pet name, at the end. But it never, never reached him, And he did languish yet, For the Cook, at home in Erin He never could forget. But lo! a taste for learning, Is like a taste for drink, While working on the pothooks, She then began to think. And thought, is like a snowball, That gathers every turn; She studied read-'em-easys, While joints began to burn. She studied, night and morning, At languages, and paint, At poetry, and musty prose, And legends, old, and quaint. She wrote a three-vol. novel, And got a fancy price, Became a photo beauty; "Oh, this," quoth she, "is nice!" She then appeared in drama, While posing there, with grace Of gauze, and limelight glowing Upon her lovely face; A common soldier, shouted From the Olympian rail-- "O 'evans!" its my 'Arriet, And turning deadly pale. [Illustration]