The sling; you’d keep a man all night ’thout singin’ out “Yo, ho!”
[69]
]
OUR GOLDFIELDS SPRING.
You come not with the dainty air and grace,
And wreathing smiles, that clothe the Eastern season—
A maiden lithe of form, and fair of face,
To wheedle lovers from the ranks of reason:
You do not come in riots of pink lace,