I had just been selected as he who should throw all

    The rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowal

    On myself, after twenty or thirty rejections,

    Of those fossil remains which she called her "affections,"

    And that rather decayed but well-known work of art

    Which Miss Flora persisted in styling her "heart."

    So we were engaged. Our troth had been plighted,

    Not by moonbeam or starbeam, by fountain or grove,

    But in a front parlor, most brilliantly lighted,

    Beneath the gas-fixtures, we whispered our love.

    Without any romance, or raptures, or sighs,

    Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes,

    Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions,

    It was one of the quietest business transactions,

    With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any,

    And a very large diamond imported by Tiffany.

    On her virginal lips, while I printed a kiss,

    She exclaims, as a sort of parenthesis,

    And by way of putting me quite at my ease,

    "You know I'm to polka as much as I please,

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