Come, dry your eyes, Grandmother Nature,

They care not a whit for your woe;

The city is calling her daughters—

We can't spare them longer, they know—

Our beautiful, tender-voiced darlings,

With the blue of the deep Summer skies,

And the glow of the bright Summer sunshine,

Entrapped in their mischievous eyes.

We know their expenses are awful,

That horror unspeakable fills

The souls of unfortunate fathers

Who foot up their dressmaker's bills.

That they'd barter their souls for French candy;

That diamonds ruin their peace;

That they rave over middle-aged actors,

And in other respects are—well, geese.

We laugh at them, boys, but we love them,

For under their nonsense we know

They've hearts that are honest and loving,

And souls that are whiter than snow.

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