VII.
Ah! poets sing Athenian girls
With gold cicalas in their curls,
And eyes like stars and teeth like pearls,
And necks like Parian stone.
As far as I'm concerned, they may
Forever by Ilyssus stay,
Until their braided locks are gray,
And all their charms are flown.
VIII.
For have I not my Yankee maid,
The bud that blooms in woodland shade,
In spotless dimity arrayed,
To vie with Athens' best?
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