WAITING FOR HER PRINCE

OUT where the scarlet maples grow,
Beneath a spreading linden’s shade,
Waiting for Prince Scheherazade,
Sits pretty Katie Lamoreau.

Up in the cottage just above,
With hard unceasing plash and rub,
Her mother works the steaming tub,
Scrubbing and scolding, all for love.

Hard worked, hard-featured, prone to frown,
With knitted brow and keen black eyes—
The daughter is a sweet surprise,
The world-worn mother softened down.

And argument may not convince
The red armed shrew that pretty Kate
Can do aught better than to wait
Until blind fortune sends her Prince.

And she will wait each summer day,
A senseless novel in her hand,
Dreaming a dream of fairy land,
Until her Prince shall ride that way.

Her Prince will come; and she will thank
Her fortune, and be only glad,
Tho’ he is but an Irish lad,
Who wields the hod or walks the plank.

“So, sift the classic idyls out
From words and glosses overlaid,
Your Damon is a Helot lout—
Your Daphne is a chambermaid.”