From The Rise and Fall of the Mustache, and other “Hawk-eyetems,” by Robert J. Burdette, illustrated by R. W. Wallis; Burlington Publishing Company, Burlington, Iowa; 1877; p. 86.
HOW many times do I love you, dear?
That is beyond my number’s skill;
Dearer your smiles than aught else here,
Unless it might be my amberill.
Sweet is the glance of your soft brown eyes,
Veiled when the silken fringest fall;
Verse can not tell how much I prize
Thee, and my constant umbersoll.
As the shadowy years speed on and by
Over our lives like a magic spell;
Ever to thee I’ll fondly fly,
And shelter you under my amberell.
Time’s wings are swifter than thought, my dear,
When my heart is cheered by your sunny smile;
Never an hour is sad or drear,
When I know where to look for my old umbrile.
Even when life its sands have run
And my leaf has fallen sere and yellow,
Little I’ll heed either storm or sun
Safe ’neath the roof of my dear umbrellow.
Ha! But the world is wrapped in gloom —
Storm, rain and tempest round me roll;
Show me the man ! Oh, give me room !
Some wretch has stolen my umbersole.