McLaughlin, why will you persistently part
Your hair in the middle, thus touching the heart
Of the girls of our church? I think it is wrong;
For forgiveness you’ll have to sing us a song.
Now sweet Mrs. Worth, our directress and guide,
Her name and her nature so closely allied;
Her gay, happy face and her laughing, bright eyes,
Are a light in the Lyceum the male members prize.
Mr. Goodrich writes quaintly, a style of his own,
But favors us seldom, if we let him alone;