by Arthur Stringer
W ID her shmile that is wishtful and sad,
Wid her hand folded close like a wing,
Wid her blue eyes so throubled and wide,
She waits for the letther I bring.
Wid a laugh and a toss av the head
She blows me a kiss from the wall;
But the letther she holds to her breast,
And she's weepin' at nothin' at all!
And she'll sob and she'll brood on a scrawl
From this habbage gone many a year —
While she stabs me wid kisses and shmiles,
But crowns me not wanst wid a tear!
Last updated January 14, 2019