By Eugene Field
When you were mine, in auld lang syne,
And when none else your charms might ogle,
I’ll not deny, fair nymph, that I
Was happier than a heathen mogul.
Before _she_ came, that rival flame
(Had ever mater saucier filia?),
In those good times, bepraised in rhymes,
I was more famed than Mother Ilia.
Chloe of Thrace! With what a grace
Does she at song or harp employ her!
I’d gladly die, if only I
Could live forever to enjoy her!
My Sybaris so noble is
That, by the gods, I love him madly!
That I might save him from the grave,
I’d give my life, and give it gladly!
What if _ma belle_ from favor fell,
And I made up my mind to shake her;
Would Lydia then come back again,
And to her quondam love betake her?
My other beau should surely go,
And you alone should find me gracious;
For no one slings such odes and things
As does the lauriger Horatius!