The afternoon was waning fast,

As thronging Kearny street there passed,

Fair maids, brides, widows closely massed,

A shining stream of

                                                                                    Steel.

On bonnet, hats, above, beneath,

Flashing like falchion from their sheath,

On mantle, dress, in flowers or wreath,

There’s nothing worn but

                                                                                    Steel.

From happy homes and firesides bright,

From hotels glittering with light,

The crowd had come.  Ah, what a sight

Of scintillating

                                                                                    Steel.

“Try not to pass,” an old man cried,

As two among them vainly tried

To get from buttons fringe untied,

Thus scattering beads of

                                                                                    Steel.

“Oh stay!” the maid said, “let me rest

My mantle thus, upon thy breast.

I’ll disentangle from thy vest

Buttons my fringe of

                                                                                    Steel.”

A leer stood in the youth’s bad eye

As her he answered, “Do not try

To break the link thus formed by

This brilliant chain of

                                                                                    Steel.”

Beware, O maid, the soft reply—

Beware the glance of wicked eye,

The honeyed words, the smothered sigh—

They’re none as true as

                                                                                    Steel.

A traveler he, from Boston bound,

And as among the crowd he wound

His way, he thought at last I’ve found

A maid I’d like to

                                                                                    Steal.

There in the twilight cold and gray,

A “mash” was made.  O happy day

That joined them, though in simple way,

By chain of glittering