Fond of pipes and port wine and a doze
Without a respectable feature,
With a squint and a very queer nose.

But she is a being seraphic,
Full of fun, full of frolic and mirth;
Who can talk in a manner most graphic
Every possible language on earth.
When she's roaming in regions Italic,
You would think her a fair Florentine;
She speaks German like Schiller; and Gallic
Better far than Rousseau or Racine.

She sings--sweeter far than a cymbal
(A sound which I never have heard);
She plays--and her fingers most nimble
Make music more soft than a bird.
She speaks--'tis like melody stealing
O'er the Mediterranean sea;
She smiles--I am instantly kneeling
On each gouty and corpulent knee.

'Tis night! the pale moon shines in heaven
(Where else it should shine I don't know),
And like fire-flies the Pleiades seven
Are winking at mortals below:
Let them wink, if they like it, for ever,
My heart they will ne'er lead astray;
Nor the soft silken memories sever,
Which bind me to Alice De Grey.