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PRUE.

She has healthy round cheeks
Like the blossom of apple,
And freshness one seeks
All in vain from Whitechapel;
The tangles that tumble about her fair head
Form a beautiful cluster,
But might want a duster
To make them the proper and perfect gold thread;
And her eyes' merry blue,
With their beaming
And dreaming,
Light up a sweet picture of childhood called Prue.
She has pretty curved lips
Full as rosy as coral,
Though her fingers' brown tips
Deal in mud for its moral;
Her ears are like shells polished white by the waves

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Till they curl up and glisten,
Which came out to listen
And still keep the music in murmurous caves;
But her tongue can be rue
And its twitter
Quite bitter,
If neighbours presume to impose upon Prue.
She has naked soiled feet
That seem fresh in creation,
As sprung from the street
Like a new revelation;
While her wonderful legs are all bonny and bare
Nor asserted demurely,
And carry securely
The thoughts of a queen and a kingdom of care;
And her general hue
To each gusset
Is russet,
Reminding of earth—for an earth-child is Prue.
She has garments of tags
And the Whitechapel vesture,
Half ribands, half rags,
But a tyrannous gesture;
With the ways of a woman and face of a child,
And a laugh as delicious
As softly seditious,
And notions and words in a babblement wild;
The infallible clue
To her graces'
Embraces
Is peppermint, which is resistless for Prue.