Horatio

 His portrait hung upon the wall.

 Oh how at us he used to stare.

Each Sunday when I made my call! --
 And when one day it wasn't there,
Quite quick I seemed to understand
 The light was green to hold her hand.


Her eyes were amorously lit;
 I knew she wouldn't mind at all.

Yet what I did was sit and sit
 Seeing that blankness on the wall .
 .
 .

Horatio had a gentle face,--
 How would my mug look in his place?

That oblong of wall-paper wan!
 And while she prattled prettily
I sensed the red light going on,
 So I refused a cup of tea,
And took my gold-topped cane and hat--
 My going seemed to leave her flat.


Horatio was a decent guy,
 And when she ravished from her heart
A damsite better man than I,
 She seemed to me,--well, just a tart:
Her lack of tact I can't explain.

 His picture,--is it hung again?

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