We shall see her no more
       &nbsp On the balcony,
Smiling, while hurt, at the roar
       &nbsp As of surging sea
From the stormy sturdy band
       &nbsp Who have doomed her lord's cause,

Though she waves her little hand
       &nbsp As it were applause.
Here will be candidates yet,
       &nbsp And candidates' wives,
Fervid with zeal to set
       &nbsp Their ideals on our lives:

Here will come market-men
       &nbsp On the market-days,
Here will clash now and then
       &nbsp More such party assays.
And the balcony will fill
       &nbsp When such times are renewed,

And the throng in the street will thrill
       &nbsp With to-day's mettled mood;
But she will no more stand
       &nbsp In the sunshine there,
With that wave of her white-gloved hand,
       &nbsp And that chestnut hair.