Phenix Gazette

Nothing can be better in its way than the
following version from the Boston Statesman.
of an old story.
"She stood in tears, like maiden all forlorn, [horn."
Who milk'd (fond wench!) the cow with crumpled
Miss Polly Dolly Adeline
Amelia Agnes Low,
Was none of nature's journeymen's
Unchisell'd work, I trow.
Her forehead was as smooth as glass,
Her mouth was a strait line,
And her eyes stood out as visibly
As letters on a sign.
The "Venus of the Capitol"
Was taller than Miss Low,
But then Miss Low's diameter
And though she was the mould of form,
Made up for it you know;
And woe unrivalled shoes.
Her waist was not invisible,
And her feet were 'made to use.
'Twas said Miss Polly Dolly Low
Was waiting to disclaim
The last sweet monosyllable
Of her romantic name:
And every Sunday evening
She comb'd her golden hair,
And at the window, pensively,
Sat "sighing to the air."
And Cupid, little rogue! was kind,
That is so often cruel,
And to Miss Polly Dolly's name
He sent a stick of fuel-
A tall and handsome man was he,
The reigning village beau,
That made his bow one evening
To Polly Dolly Low.
He took a chair and sidled up,
And said "I guess as how
You thunk, Miss Polly Adeline,
I've come to court you now"
"I know'd it" said the overcome
Miss Polly, "long ago"
And on his neck she flung herself
Affectionate Miss Low!
And then got up quite out of breath,
Young Ebenezer Stout.
And spoke again--'I guess as how
You did'nt hear me out--
Miss Polly Dolly Low