I

Little L AURETTE was sitting beside
Her dressing-room fire, in a dream, alone;
A mignonne mixture of love and pride
She seemed, as she loosed her zone.

II

She combed her tresses of wondrous hair,
Her small white feet to the fire peeped out,
Strangely fluttered her bosom fair,
And her lips had a wilful pout.

III

Whoever had seen that little Laurette
Looking so innocent, tender, sweet,
Would have longed to make her his own own pet,
To lie at her fair young feet.

IV

Is it fear that dwells in those weird blue eyes?
For it is not love and it is not sorrow.
Ah, little Laurette, from your dream arise,
You must be married to-morrow.

V

Married to one who loves you well,
Whose wealth to your life will a glory be.
Yet I guess you are thinking — who can tell? —
Of Frank, who is over the sea.

VI

How happy they were, that girl and boy,
On the garden terrace by moonlight met,
When to look in his eyes was the perfect joy
Of that darling little Laurette.

VII

How wretched they were, that boy and girl,
When for the last last time they met,
And he carried away a soft bright curl,
And the heart of little Laurette.

VIII

Pooh, pooh! her heart? Why she hasn't a heart,
She waltzed that night with Sir Evelyn Vere:
Into the greenhouse they strolled apart —
He's got twenty thousand a year —

IX

A house in Park Lane — a ch├óteau in France —
A charming villa on Windermere.
She made up her mind in that very first dance
She'd like to be Lady Vere.

X

The news will go out by the Overland Mail:
In a month or two poor Frank will hear,
That London has nothing to do but hail
The beauty of Lady Vere.

XI

She'll be Queen of Fashion, that heartless elf,
Till a younger comes, and the world grows cool
And as to Frank — will he shoot himself?
Well, I hope he's not quite such a fool.