When buttercups are blossoming, The poets sand, 'tis best to wed: So all for love we paired in Spring-- Blanche and I--ere youth had sped.

The buttercups, bright-eyed and bold, Held up their chalices of gold To catch the sunshine and the dew.

No, he was no such charlatan-- Count de Hoboken Flash-in-the-Pan-- Full of gasconade and bravado, But a regular, rich Don Rataplane, Santa Claus de la Muscavado, Senor Grandissimo Bastinado! His was the rental of half Havana And all Matanzas; and Santa Ana, Rich as he was, could hardly hold A candle to light the mines of gold Our Cuban owned.

Alas, by what rude fate Our lives, like ships at sea, an instant meet, Then part forever on their courses fleet.

No clouds are in the morning sky, The vapors hug the stream, Who says that life and love can die In all this northern gleam? At every turn the maples burn, The quail is whistling free, The partridge whirs, and the frosted burs Are dropping for you and me. Ho! hillyho! heigh O! Hillyho! In the clear October morning.

Just where the Treasury's marble front Looks over Wall Street's mingled nations,-- Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont To throng for trade and last quotations; Where, hour, by hour, the rates of gold Outrival, in the ears of people, The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled From Trinity's undaunted steeple.