THE GIRLS OF THE WEST

You may talk, if you please, Of the brown Portuguese, But, wherever you roam, wherever you roam, You nothing will meet Half so lovely or sweet As the girls at home, the girls at home. Their eyes are not sloes, Nor so long is their nose, But, between me and you, between me and you, They are just as alarming, And ten times more charming, With hazel and blue, with hazel and blue. They don’t ogle a man O’er the top of their fan, Till his heart’s in a flame, his heart’s in a flame But though bashful and shy, They’ve a look in their eye That just comes to the same, just comes to the same. No mantillas they sport, But a petticoat short Shows an ankle the best, an ankle the best, And a leg—but, O murther! I dare not go further, So here’s to the West; so here’s to the West. Charles Lever.