The debutantes are in force to-night,
Sweet as their roses, pure as truth;
Dreams of beauty in clouds of tulle;
Blushing, fair in their guileless youth.
Flashing bright glances carelessly—
Carelessly, think you! Wait and see
How their sweetest smile is kept for him
Whom "mother" considers a good parti.
For the matrons watch and guard them well—
Little for youth or love care they;
The man they seek is the man with gold,
Though his heart be black, and his hair be gray.
"Nellie, how could you treat him so!
You know very well he is Goldmore's heir,"
"Jennie, look modest! Glance down and blush,—
Here comes papa with young Millionaire."
On a cold, gray rock, in Grecian seas,
The sirens sit, and their glamour try—
Warm white bosoms press harps of gold,
The while Ulysses' ship sails by.
Fair are the forms the sailors see,
Sweet are the songs the sailors hear
And—cool and wary, shrewd and old,
The sirens' mothers are watching near,
Whispering counsel—"Fling back your hair,
It hides your shoulder." "Don't sing so fast!"
"Darling, don't look at that fair young man,
Try that old fellow there by the mast,
His arms are jewelled"—let it go!
Too bitter all this for an idle rhyme;
But sirens are kin of the gods, be sure,
And change but little with lapse of time.