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A MISSION.

LIKE summer skies her eyes of blue,

Streakt sunset are her locks of yellow;

And that I love her, must be true.

She only says, "You foolish fellow!"

I'd pour my free blood out for her

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Were it the proper thing to pour it;

I love to madness, I aver;

And, oh! her sketching, I adore it!

Her Kensington embroidery

Would quite bereave a man of reason;

She sings like Gerster or Patti;

She waltzes in and out of season.

She treats her lovers, every one,

To winning smiles or gestures haughty;

She plays Chopin and Mendelssohn

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