A poem by John Hartley

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.

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