The wail of the ’cello is soft, sweet, and low;
    There are strains of romance in the thrumming banjo. 
    The violin’s note—­feel it float in your ear;
    And the harp makes one fancy that angels are near.

    The voice of a young girl can reach to the heart;
    The song of the baritone—­well, it is art. 
    The flute and the lute in gavotte—­the guitar
    In soft serenade—­how entrancing they are! 
      But to all the mad millions
      Who dance at cotillons
    There’s naught like the clink and the clank and the crunch
      Of the ice in the punch.

    So here’s to the recipe, ancient in Spain,
    And here’s to the basket of cobwebbed champagne. 
    Again to the genius who grows the sharp spice,
    But ten times to King Winter who furnishes ice;
      For to all the mad millions
      Who dance at cotillons
    There’s naught like the clink and the clank and the crunch
      Of the ice in the punch.

The Tale of a Broken Heart.

She was a
Beautiful,
Dutiful,
Grand,
And rollicking queen of Bohemia,
With a cheek that was
Rosier,
Cosier,
And
As soft as a lily, and creamier.

She was always com-
pelling me,
Selling me,
I
Was her slave, but she treated me shamefully. 
She went on the
Stage, was a
Rage, as a—­
Why—­
As a page, and they spoke of her blamefully. 
And then in the
Papers her
Capers were
Writ.

I love her no longer,—­I swear it;
But I oft spend a
Dollar and
Holler and
Sit
Through her antics.  Oh, how can I bear it?

Where did you get it?

Pray, ladies, ye of wondrous clothes,
That draw admiring “ahs!” and “ohs!”
And “By Joves!” as men chat,
Permit me,—­love the right bestows,—­
Where did you get that hat?

    The very hat, sweet maids, I mean,
    So often now on Broadway seen,
      That is so very flat;
    Black as a rule, but sometimes green. 
      Where did you get that hat?

    In shape an oyster-dish,—­the crown,—­
    A ribbon bristles up and down,
      Quite striking—­yes, all that;
    The sweetest, neatest thing in town! 
      Where did you get that hat?

No

    “No!” The word
    Fell upon my ears
    Like the knell of a funeral bell. 
    I had fondly expected
    A whispered “yes” that
    Would steal into my soul
    Like the song of an angel
    From some distant Aidenn. 
    I arose and brushed off
    The knees of my trousers. 
    “Farewell,” I said; “you have ruined my life.” 
    “Nonsense,” she replied in the cold, cutting voice
    Of a woman who has been used to $100 bills
    And a coupe;