Your little fingers, far from deft,
Coped for an arduous week with knitting;
And, though the meekness of your hair
Drooped o'er the task disarmed my strictures,
The Army gained when in despair
You dropped its socks to paint it pictures.
I, knowing well your guileless brush,
Urged that there wanted something subtler
To put Meissonier to the blush
And snatch the bays from Lady Butler;