BETSEY BOBBIT: HER POEM.
Josiah came in, t’other day, from the postoffice; and he says, says he, throwin’ down the “Weekly Gimlet:”
“Here’s old Betsey Bobbit been a makin’ a fool of herself agin. Just read this stuff that she calls a pome.”
I took the newspaper, and sot down by the winder, to get more light, for my eyes ain’t as good as when I was a gal, and this is what I read:
I WISH I WAS A WIDDER,
BY BETSEY BOBBIT.
Oh, “Gimlet,” back again I float
With broken wings, a weary bard;
I cannot write as once I wrote,