flora’s album, 107 
Sorrel. 
WIT. 
In her bower a widow dwelt, 
At her feet three lovers knelt; 
Each adored the widow much, 
Each essayed her heart to touch ; 
One had luit^ and one had gold, — 
One was ca.st in beauty's mould : 
Guess which was it won the prize, — 
Tongue, or purse, or handsome eyes ? 
First began the handsome man; 
Peeping proudly o’er her fan : 
Ked his lips, and white his skin, — 
Could such beauty fail to win ? 
Then stepped forth the man of gold; 
Cash he counted, coin he told; 
Wealth the burden of the tale, — 
^ Could such golden projects fail ? 
Then the man of wit and sense 
Wooed her with his eloquence ; 
Now she heard him with a sigh, — 
Then she blushed, scarce knowing why, — 
Then she smiled to hear him speak, — 
Then a tear was on her cheek: 
Beauty, vanish, — Gold, depart! 
Wit hath won the widow’s heart. 
T. H. Bayly. 
