Oh, the little yachting cap That is lying in her lap Has a sort of fascination for poor me. It is made of something white, And she wears it day and night, Through the weeks she spends each summer by the sea.
She can make of it a fan, And, when necessary, can Hide her face behind it, if she chance to blush. It has carried caramels, Chocolate drops, and pretty shells, And I've even seen her use it as a brush.
But still it has one fault In my eyes. I'd better halt, Had I not, and ponder well what I shall say? She is darting warning glances. Well, under certain circumstances, The visor's always getting in my way.
The moonlight steals around the pine; Star-eyes steal radiance from thine.
Low music steals upon the ear; Can there be theft when thou art near?
I steel my heart for fear of this,-- I steel my heart and steal a kiss.
I'd steal the sacramental wine If it were sweet as kiss of thine!
I pause before her mirror and reflect (That's what the mirror does, I take it, too); Reflect how little it has known neglect, And think, "O mirror, would that I were you."
She has no secrets that you do not know, You and yon crescent box of poudre de rose. And even these long curling irons can show Much evidence of use, yet naught disclose.
Here, when she smiles, _you_ know it is her teeth She's putting to the test ere she depart For the gay revel on the lawn beneath, Or moonlight ramble that may break a heart.
Here she may blush, until she, red as wine, Knows that her triumphs have not ceased to be. Here, when she frowns, and looks still more divine, You know, wise mirror, that she thinks of me.
You don't think of dresses, or ducats, or dukes; You don't care for chaperone's rigid rebukes; It's just simply grand, To lie there on the sand, Down at the beach,-- If a man's within reach.
Some like the moonlight and some like the sun, Some flirt in earnest and some flirt in fun; It's worth all the rash, Reckless spending of cash, All the dresses you spoil, All the tempers you roil, Down at the beach,-- If a man's within reach.
It's better than sleigh-rides, cotillons, or teas, It makes the dull Patriarch's knickerbocked knees Shake in the dance, And then one has a chance, If one's pretty and smart, With a tongue not too tart, Of presenting papaw With a new son-in-law, Down at the beach,-- If a man's within reach.