Nettie.

Nettie, Nettie! oh, she's pretty!     With her wreath of golden curls;     None compare with charming Nettie,     She's the prettiest of girls.     Not her face alone is sweetest, -     Nor her eyes the bluest blue,     But her figure is the neatest     Of all forms I ever knew.     But she has a fault, - the greatest     That a pretty girl could have;     When she's looking the sedatist,     And pretending to be grave, -     You discover, 'spite of hiding,     What I feel constrained to tell;     That she knows she is a beauty, -     Knows it, - knows it, - aye, too well.     May be when the bloom has vanished;     Which we know in time it will;     And her foolish fancies banished,     May be, she'll be lovely still.     For though Time may put his finger,     On her dainty-fashioned face;     There will still some beauty linger,     Round her form so full of grace.     And her heart, - the priceless treasure,     Which so many long to win,     Still shall prove a fount of pleasure,     To the love that enters in.     Pity 'tis that fairest blossoms     Must in time fall from the tree;     Pity 'tis that snow-white bosoms     Must yield up their symmetry.     Brightest eyes will lose their love-light,     Fairest cheeks grow pale and gray; -     Golden locks will lose their sunlight,     And the loveliest limbs decay.     But whilst life is left we hunger     For a taste of earthly bliss;     But the man need seek no longer,     Who can call sweet Nettie his.