Miss Flora McFlimsey of Madison Square,
Has made three separate journeys to Paris,
And her father assures read more

Miss Flora McFlimsey of Madison Square,
Has made three separate journeys to Paris,
And her father assures me each time she was there
That she and her friend Mrs. Harris . . .
Spent six consecutive weeks, without shopping
In one continuous round of shopping,-- . . .
And yet, though scarce three months have passed since the day
This merchandise went on twelve carts, up Broadway,
This same Miss McFlimsey of Madison Square
The last time we met was in utter despair
Becasue she had nothing whatever to wear.

My galligaskins, that have long withstood
The winter's fury, and encroaching frosts,
By time subdues (what will read more

My galligaskins, that have long withstood
The winter's fury, and encroaching frosts,
By time subdues (what will not time subdue!)
An horrid chasm disclosed.

Dress drains our cellar dry,
And keeps our larder lean; puts out our fires
And introduces hunger, read more

Dress drains our cellar dry,
And keeps our larder lean; puts out our fires
And introduces hunger, frost, and woe,
Where peace and hospitality might reign.

Old Grimes is dead, that good old man,
We ne'er shall see him more;
He used to read more

Old Grimes is dead, that good old man,
We ne'er shall see him more;
He used to wear a long black coat
All button'd down before.

Attired to please herself: no gems of any kind
She wore, nor aught of borrowed gloss in Nature's stead;
read more

Attired to please herself: no gems of any kind
She wore, nor aught of borrowed gloss in Nature's stead;
And, then her long, loose hair flung round her head
Fell carelessly behind.

Neat, not gaudy.

Neat, not gaudy.

Do not conceive that fine clothes make fine men, any more than fine feathers make fine birds. A plain, genteel read more

Do not conceive that fine clothes make fine men, any more than fine feathers make fine birds. A plain, genteel dress is more admired, obtains more credit in the eyes of the judicious and sensible.

Fare you well, my lord, and believe this of me: there can be no
kernel in this light nut; read more

Fare you well, my lord, and believe this of me: there can be no
kernel in this light nut; the soul of this man is his clothes.
Trust him not in matter of heavy consequence.

Old Rose is dead, that good old man,
We ne'er shall see him more;
He used to read more

Old Rose is dead, that good old man,
We ne'er shall see him more;
He used to wear an old blue coat
All buttoned down before.