To Myrtilla, on Opening Day
Myrtilla, ere the season starts,
Or e’er the primal ball be thrown
If you would win this callous heart’s
Affection for your very own,
This counsel, blooming, fresh and frondent—
Accept it from your correspondent.
Or e’er the primal ball be thrown
If you would win this callous heart’s
Affection for your very own,
This counsel, blooming, fresh and frondent—
Accept it from your correspondent.
Back in the days of Old Cap Anse
’Twas reckoned cute to spoof a dame,
And famed was her incognitance
About the so-called national game;
And comment feminine was silly.
That was before your day, Myrtilly.
’Twas reckoned cute to spoof a dame,
And famed was her incognitance
About the so-called national game;
And comment feminine was silly.
That was before your day, Myrtilly.
For, now, Myrtilla, I admit
Your knowledge far transcends mine own;
You know an error from a hit—
A quaver from a semitone;
You never say “How small the bat is!”
You never have to ask who that is.
Your knowledge far transcends mine own;
You know an error from a hit—
A quaver from a semitone;
You never say “How small the bat is!”
You never have to ask who that is.
Nay, Myrt, too well you like the game;
You are too true a devotee;
My Blue-Print is the kind of dame
Whose love is less for ball than me;
And so, my Myrt, that is the reason
I think I’ll go alone this season.
You are too true a devotee;
My Blue-Print is the kind of dame
Whose love is less for ball than me;
And so, my Myrt, that is the reason
I think I’ll go alone this season.