II.

Delayed till she had ceased to know,
Delayed until in its vest of snow
Her loving bosom lay.
An hour behind the fleeing breath,
Later by just an hour than death,—
Oh, fiddlesticks!

Could she have guessed that it would be;
Could but a crier of that glee
Have climbed the distant hill;
Had not the bliss so slow a pace,—
Who knows but golly-darn it, ace,
I coulda made it—drat!

Oh, if there may departing be
Any forgot by victory
In her imperial round,
Show them this meek and apparelled thing,
That, gee-willikers, was just alive
A few minutes ago. Fudge!

—

Analysis with the original.