Republican Herald

POETRY.

MISS PATTY DOLLY STOWE.

There was in old Connecticut,
Some forty years ago,
A lady young and beautiful,
Miss Patty Dolly Stowe.
Of Nature's handy work was she
The fairest specimen
As ever came from out her shop,
To captivate us men.
She had a face as round and red
As the rising harvest moon,
And smiles which glimmered so pleasantly
As an April sun at noon;
And then her pretty nose and chin,
In Cupid's livery drest,
A pair of eyes so black and bright
As a bird's in spring-time nest.
Her form was short, but knit
With nature's best devices:
In frame and shape—in all but length
A Venus de Medicis—
A pair of arms, full fat and plump,
With nerve and muscle strung,
She'd lift a cask of cider up
And drink out of the bung.
But though she was so comely,
Her charms weren't thrown away
She'd wash and knit, and after spin
Her forty knots a day.
She'd roast a pig most elegantly,
And broil a canvas duck,
But oh! the dish that she could make
Out of a head and pluck.
She was no fishing simperer,
Miss Patty Dolly Stowe!
And if a man made love to her
She answered yes or no,
When Abel Crane came courting her,
She answered to the point,
Without a sigh or blush she said,
"Your nose is out of joint!"
And when he turned his face away
To cover his bitter smart,
She pinched his arm and gently said,
She thought he'd better wait.
He snapped his fingers, scraped his heel,
A kind good morning bid her—
And when a year or two had past,
She was a blooming widow.
He waited for her a month or two,
Then met her at her gate
And asked her if she would marry him—
She said "you are too late!"
But Abel said he'd have her yet,—
She bid him try again;
"He'd have her yet," he said, as sure
As he was Abel Crane.
The second was a tougher lad,
And would not die so quick,
And full ten years had passed away,
When he was taken sick.
His ailment was a typhus, and
The Doctors could not save,
So, soon, poor man, she coffined him
And bore him to his grave.
And as she stood in widow's weeds,
Beside his lonely bier,
Young Abel slily squeezed her hand,
And whispered in her ear,
But Dolly with a husky tone,
With sighs and sobbings broken,
Returned the gentle squeeze, and said,
"Young David Jones has spoken."
Now Abel Crane, while grim despair
Stared him in the face,
Without a sigh or groan replied
"I don't give up the chase,
While life preserves a single tree
For my hope to climb;—
Should David Jones be taken off,
I speak for the next time."