LA BELLE TROMBONISTE.

How grave she sits and toots

In the glare!

From her dainty bits of boots

To her hair

Not the sign remotest shows

If she either cares or knows

How the beer-imbibing beaux

Sit and stare.

They're most prodigal with sighs,

Or they laugh;

Or they cast adoring eyes

As they quaff.

They exert their every wile

Her attention to beguile.

Do they ever win a smile?

Not by half!

She leans upon her chin

( Not a toot! ),

While the leading violin

And the flute

Wail and plead in low duet

Till, it may be, eyes are wet.

She her trombone doth forget —

She is mute.

The music louder grows;

She's awake!

She applies her lips and blows —

Goodness sake!......

To think that such a peal

From such throat and frame ideal,

From such tender lips could steal —

Takes the cake!

The dinning cymbals shrill

Kiss and clash.

Drum and kettle-drum at will

Roll and crash.

But that trombone over all

Toots unto my heart a call;—

Maid petite, and trombone tall —

It's a mash!

Yet, I hesitate — for lo,

What a pout!

She's poetic; and I know

I am stout.

In her little room would she

On her trombone, tenderly,

Sit and toot as thus to me?—

Ah, I doubt!