THE YANKEE GIRL.
She sings by her wheel, at that low cottage-door—
Which the long evening shadow is stretching before,
With a music as sweet as the music which seems
Breathed softly and faint the the ear of our dreams!
How brilliant and mirthful the light of her eye,
Like a star glancing out from the blue of the sky!
And lightly and freely her dark tresses play
O'er a brow and a bosom as lovely as they!
Who comes in his pride to that low cottage-door?
The haughty and rich to the humble and poor?
'Tis the great southern planter—the master who waves
His whip of dominion o'er hundreds of slaves.
'Nay Ellen—for shame! Let those yankee fools spin,
Who would pass for our slaves with a change of their skin—
Let them toil as they will at the loom or the wheel,
Too stupid for shame, and too vulgar to feel!
