The Ballad of Mr. Cooke.
A Legend of the Cliff House, San Francisco.
Where the sturdy ocean breeze
Drives the spray of roaring seas
That the Cliff-House balconies
Overlook:
There, in spite of rain that balked,
With his sandals duly chalked,
Once upon a tight-rope walked
Mr. Cooke.
But the jester's lightsome mien,
And his spangles and his sheen,
All had vanished, when the scene
He forsook;----
Yet in some delusive hope,
In some vague desire to cope,
One still came to view the rope
Walked by Cooke.
Amid Beauty's bright array,
On that strange eventful day,
Partly hidden from the spray,
In a nook,
Stood Florinda Vere de Vere;
Who with wind-dishevelled hair,
And a rapt, distracted air,
Gazed on Cooke.
Then she turned, and quickly cried
To her lover at her side,
While her form with love and pride
Wildly shook,
"Clifford Snook! oh, hear me now!
Here I break each plighted vow:
There's but one to whom I bow,
And that's Cooke!"
Haughtily that young man spoke:
"I descend from noble folk.
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