She makes in my bosom a pother,
When leering politely askance,
She shuts one, and winks with the other.
The lips of my charmer are sweet,
As a hogshead of maple molasses,
And the ruby red tint of her cheek,
The gill of a salmon surpasses.
No teeth like her’s ever were seen,
Nor ever described in a novel,
Of a beautiful kind of pea-green,