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“DOT.”

Dumpy “Dot”
Is the smallest
Of dear girly things,
A bright spot
That feels tallest
When trying her wings;
And in thick London vapour,
Where gaslights burn low
And shops hardly show,
She shines out like a taper—
You could read any paper,
By her fairy glow.
Dumpy “Dot”
Is the brightest
Of children I see,
Though her lot
Is not lightest—
She's brisk as a bee;
And she gathers her honey
From pavement and mire,
In tattered attire
Looking roguish and funny—
She picks up her money
And toys, at desire.
Dumpy “Dot”
Is the sweetest
Of innocent loves,
Though she's not
The discreetest;
Her voice is a dove's;

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And the chimes of her chatter
Go straight to the heart
With a tune more than art;
And her feet have a patter,
All troubles to scatter
And comfort each smart.
Dumpy “Dot”
Is a pickle,
Yet no one would fret
If the pot
In her fickle
Career were upset;
But her likes have a flavour
Of commerce and greed,
And her business-like creed
Gives the true city savour;
For she won't sell one favour,
Till properly fee'd.