And hearts to seek, nor need disguise—
As pure as heav’n above, sir;
With voices like a seraph’s light,
And forms that swim before the sight,
And waists to tempt an anchorite—
They are the girls to love, sir.
Though France may boast her dark brunette,
And Spain her eyes of flashing jet,
And Greece her tones you ne’er forget—
So like the song of dove, sir—