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by S. Smith |
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Untarnished by the breath of fame, Untouched by prose or rhyme, The world has never heard that name,— The name of Nancy Chime. Domestic, friend, and monitor, She served us long and well; Not many "helps" could equal her, And none, perhaps, excel. No evil lurked within her breast; Her face was always bright; Her trusty hands, scarce needing rest, Were busy day and night. Her voice was sweet as voice of birds That to each other call; And when she spoke, her striking words Were listened to by all. E'en Baby Bunting—darling boy, The happiest of his race— Would clap his little hands with joy, And look up in her face. But none can reach perfection here; Like all beneath the sun, She, too, could err, and her career Was not a faultless one. She only did, here let me tell, Each day the best she could; Would young folks all but do as well, The world might soon grow good. But all is past! Ah! cold that face! That bosom throbs no more! Oh! must another take her place, And we our loss deplore? Nay, nay, we could not bear the pain Of losing one so true;— Old Nancy Chime shall tick again, And be as good as new.
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