To the Finest Girl I Know.
Here's to her whose presence is ever and always near,
Here's to her whose large brown eyes make life forever dear;
Here's to her whose fair white skin is clear as the whitest snow,
Here's to the sweetest of her sex—
The finest girl I know!
Here's to the rim of my lady's glass,
But tipped by her beautiful lip,
And here's to the thrill that must certainly pass
From the rim to the base of that fortunate glass
Whenever she takes a sip.
—Bayard Bacon.
Here's health to you and wealth to you,
Honors and gifts a thousand strong;
Here's name to you and fame to you,
Blessing and joy a whole life long.
But, lest bright Fortune's star grow dim,
And sometimes cease to move to you,
I fill my bumper to the brim
And pledge a lot of love to you!
I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentler sex
The seeming paragon.
Her health! and would on earth there stood
Some more of such a frame,
That life might be all poetry,
And weariness a name.
—Edward Coate Pinckney.