Classic Poem

PETER PUMPKIN-HEAD

DEFEATED BY TABITHA TOWZER.

CANTO I .

Of Tabitha Towzer I sing,
Pray list to my delicate ditty,
My verse like brass kettle shall ring,
Or sleigh bells, which gingle so pretty.

Then loud as a conch shell I'll sound,
In this my fine cantering metre,
What virtues and graces abound
In Tabitha Towzer's friend Peter.

Miss Tabitha Towzer is fair,
No guinea-pig ever was neater,
Like a hakmatak slender and spare,
And sweet as a mush-squash, or sweeter.

Miss Tabitha Towzer is sleek,
When dress'd in her pretty new tucker,
Like an otter that paddles the creek,
In quest of a mud pout, or sucker.

Her forehead is smooth as a tray,
Ah! smoother than that, on my soul,
And turn'd, as a body may say,
Like a delicate neat wooden-bowl.

To what shall I liken her hair,
As straight as a carpenter's line,
For similes sure must be rare,
When we speak of a nymph so divine.

Not the head of Nazarite seer,
That never was shaven or shorn,
Nought equals the locks of my dear
But the silk of an ear of green corn.

My dear has a beautiful nose,
With a sled-runner crook in the middle,
Which one would be led to suppose
Was meant for the head of a fiddle.

Miss Tabby has two pretty eyes,
Glass buttons shone never so bright,
Their love-lighted lustre outvies
The lightning-bug's twinkle by night.

And oft with a magical glance,
She makes in my bosom a pother,
When leering politely askance,
She shuts one, and winks with the other.

The lips of my charmer are sweet,
As a hogshead of maple molasses,
And the ruby red tint of her cheek,
The gill of a salmon surpasses.

No teeth like her's ever were seen,
Nor ever describ'd in a novel,
Of a beautiful kind of pea-green,
And shap'd like a wooden-shod-shovel.

Her fine little ears, you would judge,
Were-wings of a bat in perfection;
A dollar I never should grudge
To put them in Peale's grand collection.

Description must fail in her chin,
At least till our language is richer,
Much fairer than ladle of tin,
Or beautiful brown earthen pitcher.

So pretty a neck, I'll be bound,
Never join'd head and body together,
Like nice crook'd neck'd squash on the ground,
Long whiten'd by winter-like weather.

The charms of her bosom would you, sir,
To form an idea be able,
A couple of oranges view, sir,
On a brownish mahogany table.

Should I set forth the rest of her charms,
I might by some phrase that's improper,
Give modesty's bosom alarms,
Which I wouldn't do for a copper.

Should I mention her gait or her air,
You might think I intended to banter;
She moves with more grace, you would swear,
Than a founder'd horse forc'd to a canter.

She sang with a beautiful voice,
Which ravish'd you out of your senses;
A pig will make just such a noise
When his hind-leg stuck fast in the fence is.