Reader! I do not wish to brag;
But, to display Eliza’s skill,
I’d proudly be the vilest rag
That ever went to paper-mill.
Content in pieces to be cut;
Tho’ sultry were the summer-skies,
Pleas’d between flannel I’d be put,
And after bath’d in jellied size.
Tho’ to be squeez’d and hang’d I hate,
For thee, sweet girl! upon my word,
When the stout press had forc’d me flat,
I’d be suspended on a cord.
And then, when dried and fit for use,
Eliza! I would pray to thee,
If with thy pen thou would’st amuse,
That thou would’st deign to write on me.
Gad’s bud! how pleasant it would prove
Her pretty chit-chat to convey,
P’rhaps be the record of her love,
Told in some coy enchanting way.
Or, if her pencil she would try,
On me, oh! may she still imprint
Those forms that fix th’ admiring eye,
Each graceful line, each glowing tint!
Then shall I reason have to brag,
For thus, to high importance grown,
The world will see a simple rag
Become a treasure rarely known.