She comforts all her mother's days,
And with her sweet, obedient ways
She makes her labor light:
So sweet to hear, so fair to see!
Oh, she is much too good for me,
That lovely Mary Hoyt.
She has my heart, sweet Mary Hoyt:
I'll e'en go sit again to-night
Beside her ironing board!
Ah, that flat-iron! It was while beneath her deft fingers it passed swiftly over the smoking linen, that "the iron entered his soul"; iron, we mean, of the nature from which Cupid forges his arrow-heads.