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The Ballade of the Northern Girl
Her manner was perfectly sweet
And golden the hue of her hair;
She was pretty, of course, and petite;
And when you would ask of her: “‘Where
Are you from?” she would answer: “Eau Claire,
Wisconsin. What? ‘Baltimore’? Nixie!
What made you think I was from there?” . . . .
She always applauded at “Dixie.”
And golden the hue of her hair;
She was pretty, of course, and petite;
And when you would ask of her: “‘Where
Are you from?” she would answer: “Eau Claire,
Wisconsin. What? ‘Baltimore’? Nixie!
What made you think I was from there?” . . . .
She always applauded at “Dixie.”
She was fair from her head to her feet;
She was—oh, description’s despair,
As she rose from her orchestra seat
And pounded her gloves to a tear—
This dear little maid from Bellaire,
Ohio. Ingenuous, tricksy.
“New Orleans? No! . . . How you stare!” . . . .
She always applauded at “Dixie.”
She was—oh, description’s despair,
As she rose from her orchestra seat
And pounded her gloves to a tear—
This dear little maid from Bellaire,
Ohio. Ingenuous, tricksy.
“New Orleans? No! . . . How you stare!” . . . .
She always applauded at “Dixie.”
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