THE LOVERS.
The rose did caper on her cheek, Her bodice rose and fell, Her pretty speech, like drunken men, Did stagger pitiful.
Her fingers fumbled at her work,-- Her needle would not go;
What ailed so smart a little maid It puzzled me to know, Till opposite I spied a cheek That bore another rose;Just opposite, another speech That like the drunkard goes;A vest that, like the bodice, danced To the immortal tune, --Till those two troubled little clocks Ticked softly into one.
