The Scornful Nose.
’Tis very true, oh maiden fair,1
You’re pleasant to the sight,2
With flowing locks of golden hair3
And eyes of flashing light.4
Upon your cheeks health loves to train5
The lily and the rose,6
But something makes your beauty vain,7
It dwells upon your nose !8
Not that the lovely nose could find9
Upon a lovelier face,10
’Mid all the flower of woman kind,11
A more befitting place.12
But there’s a curl upon its tip,13
Half comic, half severe,14
In cool collusion with the lip15
That savours of a sneer.16
So beauty bright, if you would wed,17
When lovers come to woo,18
Beware the tossing of the head,19
The glance that looks askew.20
Men ask for love, and not for wit21
That scorches where it glows,22
’Tis heart, not head, you ought to hit ;23
Uncurl your scornful nose !24