FANNY.

WHAT do the wistful eyes discover, Full of their baby dignity? Lips, I know, are as red as clover, Cheeks like the bloom that flushes over Peaches, sun-ripe on the tree. Let but a merry play-thought brighten Over the little pensive face, Then how the sober shades will lighten, Then how the dimples deep will frighten Every grave line from its place. Well, I know there is mischief sleeping, Plenty of it, behind this guise; Little brain has a way of keeping Back the smiles; but still they are peeping Out from the brow, the mouth, and eyes.