’Twas pleasant on the winter nights1
To see, beneath the shaded lights,2
Her golden head bent low ;3
To watch her snowy fingers make4
A tiny “ bridge”—and count each “ break,”5
Of such a gentle foe.6
And though she said it was a sin7
To beat her—I could always win,8
To bear such pretty blame ;9
And still while winning strokes I made,10
It seemed to me as if I played11
A very losing game.12
There’s kudos in the rattling strokes13
You make amid a fire of jokes14
From chaffing fellow-men ;15
And yet when beauty turns away,16
And pouts at your more skilful play,17
You’ve other feelings then.18
No “ hazard,” that my cunning cue,19
With all my greatest care could do,20
Or lucky “ fluke” might get,21
Could ever equal that I ran22
In playing—miserable man !—23
With such a flirting pet.24
And though I lost such heaps of gloves25
In betting with her—when one loves26
Such losing bets are blest.27
And since she teased me night and day,28
I only get at billiard-play,29
The chances of a “ rest.”30
The “ cannon” on the table green31
Will to a Canon come, I ween,32
Who’ll tie me to a wife ;33
And she, with backers not a few,34
Will quietly put on the “ screw,”35
And “ pocket” me for life !36