Classic Poem

" She is gone by the Hilda,
She is lost unto Whitby,
And her name is Matilda,
Which my heart it was smit by;
Tho' I take the Goliah,
I learn to my sorrow
That " it won't," said the crier,
" Be off till to-morrow."

" She called me her " Neddy,"
(Tho' there mayn't be much in it,)
And I should have been ready,
If she'd waited a minute;
I was following behind her
When, if you recollect, I
Merely ran back to find a
Gold pin for my neck-tie.

" Rich dresser of suet!
Prime hand at a sausage!
I have lost thee, I rue it,
And my fare for the passage!
Perhaps she thinks it funny,
Aboard of the Hilda,
But I've lost purse and money,
And thee, oh, my 'Tilda! "

His pin of gold the youth undid
And in his waistcoat-pocket hid,
Then gently folded hand in hand,
And dropped asleep upon the sand.