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LA MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR
She was Madame de Pompadour,
I wore a George's hunting-dress
When we wandered aside for a short, sweet hour,
From the masked and whirling press.
Nooked in a cool recess we sat,
Whilst her tongue, like a bee from flower to flower,
First touched on this, and then on that—
Madame de Pompadour.
Many a laughing word was said
Ere a hush crept over that green alcove,
And the light tongue ceased, for another had strayed
Into the perilous paths of love.
At first our hands met, then our eyes,
And then our lips. Ah! that short, sweet hour
In which I won her, my life-set prize,
Madame de Pompadour.
