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.
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