For the Southern Literary Messenger.
EPIGRAM.
ON A WALTZING GIRL.
| There's a charming young girl that I know, And I've thought that, if I were a beau, I should like to engage her in chat, To feast on her smiles, and all that, And drink her sweet words as they flowed From her musical mouth, like an ode; But there's one thing that shocks me, I own, And drives me to let her alone: She has one of the worst of all faults— She is fond of this new-fangled waltz. |
Q.
ANOTHER.—ON THE SAME.
| She is pretty, I agree; But she waltzes, sir, you see; And I would not give a fig For a dancing whirligig. |
Q.