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Of fashion and beauty and money,

That I should be thinking, right there,

Of some one who breasted high water,

And swam the North Fork, and all that,

Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter,

The Lily of Poverty Flat.

But goodness! what nonsense I’m writing!

(Mama says my taste still is low),

Instead of my triumphs reciting,

I'm spooning on Joseph—heigh-ho!

And I’m to be "finished" by travel—

Whatever’s the meaning of that—

Oh! why did papa strike pay gravel

In drifting on Poverty Flat?

Good-night—here’s the end of my paper;

Good-night—if the longitude please—

For maybe, while wasting my taper,

Your sun’s climbing over the trees.

But know, if you haven’t got riches,

And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that,

That my heart’s somewhere there in the

ditches,

And you’ve struck it—on Poverty Flat.