MISS M. TO MR. GREEN.
A Mournful Ditty.
TELL me not that I am pretty—
Really don't, now, Mr. Green;
I'm the last to think it's witty
Not to name things as they seem.
Yes; I know my hair is curly,
Blacker than the blackest sloe;
And I know that you'll be surly
With the candour I thus show.
That my eyes with fire are glancing
I'll admit if that you say:
Yet I think that you're romancing
When you swear they're bright as day.
Then my teeth you state are pearl,
Purer than the driven snow;
And to touch my lips you'd dare all
Dangers from an earthly foe.
Please don't be so very minute
When my beauties you describe,
As, perhaps, your flimsy tribute
May appear to be a bribe.
To secure my young affections
To your nasty little self,
And to banish all reflections
That you seek not me but pelf.
Now, if you'd be bright and happy,
Try and don't be what you seem—
A wretched, lazy, selfish chappy:
There—you have it, Mr. Green.
The Modern Athenian.