With radiant smiles beyond compare!
And to her bosom Cynthia strained
Her pa with many a fond caress—
And ere another week had waned
That mull was made into a dress.
And Cynthia blooming like a rose
Which any swain might joy to cull,
Cried "How I'll paralyze the beaux
When I put on my India mull!"
Now let the heat of August day