Page:Once a Week June to Dec 1863.pdf/220

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And when they brought a cup of tea,

’Twas her refreshment, and ’twas mine—

I took the cup, the saucer she:

’Twas Congou (bad), it seemed like wine.

Oh! dream of other days (ah! when

Shall we not dream?)—there stands a crowd

Of babbling imps where she stood then,

And cobwebs half the window shroud.

I’ve said the “cause” I cannot tell

For which those pretty things were made,

For which white fingers worked so well,

In mysteries of beads and braid.

I know it did not fail—the tall

Young curate said so. I, for one,

Gained, at that dear old corner stall,

Love without change—I wanted none! A. B.