|Mr. Punch's Book of Sports|
AN IDYL ON THE ICE
Fur-apparelled for the skating,
Comes the pond's acknowledged Belle
I am duly there in waiting,
For I'll lose no time in stating
That I love the lady well.
Then to don her skates, and surely
Mine the task to fit them tight,
Strap and fasten them securely,
While she offers me, demurely,
First the left foot then the right.
Off she circles, swiftly flying
To the pond's extremest verge;
Then returning, and replying
With disdain to all my sighing,
And the love I dare not urge.
Vainly do I follow after,
She's surrounded in a trice,
Other men have come and chaffed her,
And the echo of her laughter
Comes across the ringing ice.
Still I've hope, a hope that never
In my patient heart is dead;
Though fate for a time might sever,
Though she skated on for ever,
I would follow where she fled.