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SAMUEL MINTURN PECK
441
She amputates her r s,
But her eyes are like the stars
Overhead.
On a balcony at night
With a fleecy cloud of white
Round her hair
Her grace, ah, who could paint?
She would fascinate a saint,
I declare.
T is a matter of regret,
She s a bit of a coquette,
Whom I sing:
On her cruel path she goes
With a half a dozen beaux
To her string.
But let all that pass by,
As her maiden moments fly
Dew empearled;
When she marries, on my life.
She will make the dearest wife
In the world.
THE GRAPEVINE SVING
When I was a boy on the old plantation, Down by the deep bayou, The fairest spot of all creation, Under the arching blue;
