’Tis a dozen or so of years ago,
Somewhere in the west countree,
That a nice girl lived, as ye Hoosiers know
By the name of Deborah Lee:
Her sister was loved by Edgar Poe,
But Deborah by me.
Now I was green, and she was green,
As a summer’s squash might be,
And we loved as warmly as other folks,—
I and my Deborah Lee,—