She is neither pretty, nor fair, nor young,
Her paean of joy has long been sung;
And the soft, bright tresses are snowy with years,
And the dark-brown eyes have been dimmed with tears.
There are wrinkles where dimples were wont to hide,
And a crease where the faultless white 'kerchief is tied;
But the dainty old lace is as pure as truth
That rests on the hands, once the pride of her youth.
There 's a picture hid deep in the tender old heart,
And sometimes in secret the warm tears will start,
But what of her history, nobody knows,
For she burdens no heart with her grief and her woes,
Though her quaint, netted purse-string is loose at the end,
And her sympathy open to stranger or friend.
She is first at the bridal and first in the deep,
With the hearts that may laugh and the souls that must weep,
And her feet know far more of life's strange in and out
Than the world's tinkling cymbals have prated about.
And now as she sits there, so loving, so mild,
A balm to the gray-beard, a charm to the child,
God give her a blessing as holy, as staid,
As the joy that she gives us, the gentle old maid!