And shaped like a wooden-shod-shovel.
Her fine little ears, you would judge,
Were wings of a bat in perfection;
A dollar I never should grudge
To put them in Peale’s grand collection.
Description must fail in her chin,
At least till our language is richer,
Much fairer than ladle of tin,
Or beautiful brown earthen pitcher.
So pretty a neck, I’ll be bound,