English poem
LA BELLE TROMBONISTE.
by Charles George Douglas Roberts
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!