A Southern Girl
Her dimpled cheeks are pale;
She ’s a lily of the vale,
Not a rose.
In a muslin or a lawn
She is fairer than the dawn
To her beaux.
Her boots are slim and neat,—
She is vain about her feet,
It is said.
She amputates her r’s,
But her eyes are like the stars
Overhead.
On a balcony at night,
With a fleecy cloud of white
Round her hair—
Her grace, ah, who could paint?
She would fascinate a saint,
I declare.
’T is a matter of regret,
She ’s a bit of a coquette,
Whom I sing:
On her cruel path she goes
With a half a dozen beaux
To her string.
But let all that pass by,
As her maiden moments fly,
Dew-empearled;
When she marries, on my life,
She will make the dearest wife
In the world.