A BUTTON-HOLE BOUQUET.
Copyright, 1886, by T. B. Harms & Co.
I know a little maiden who is all the world to me.
Every evening just at twilight, ere the droning honey-bee
has sipped the fragrant sweetness from the dew-bespangled flower,
She meets me at the trysting place, the honey-suckle bower.
Her eyes are like the turquoise, or ultra-marine blue,
Her lips are like the strawberry, she wears a dainty shoe,
She nestles to me closer than the fragrance to mown hay,
As she naively pins upon my coat a button-hole bouquet.
Daffodils, roses, pansies, sweet posies,
Hyacinths rivaling heaven's own day;
Mignonette, clover, dew-sprinkled over.
Are gathered by my darling for a button-hole bouquet.
Where the oriole is singing ere the golden sun goes down.
Ere the whip-poor-will is singing oft I stole outside of town,
Where the violet is pearling, I would seek the sheltered spot.
She's sure to be there waiting like a sweet forget-me-not;
How they thrill me, those caresses, none but I can ever know,
While her shimmering golden tresses float across my throbbing brow,
Heart to heart is beating wildly, eye to eye that seems to say:
Don't forget to-morrow evening, here's a button-hole bouquet.-Chorus.