Classic Poem

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