And others, still, so it must be confessed,
That I hast learned in sorrow to detest.
’Tis fun to see thee, in thy manner mute,
When boys dost tease thee, give some one a “beaut,”
Yet, he who’s “it” deems thee a sorry jest.
Yestreen I met some other boys, and we,
At thy expense, wert havin’ much delight
Till thou got’st ’round to where I didst not see
That thou wast headed my way. Sorry plight!
That’s why I write this standin’—woe is me!—