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 A shirt pin, which no one who's seen it, denies Is as large as the knob of a poker in size: A huge cable chain down his bosom to match, Which secures a pin-cushion in lieu of a watch; Who carries a whip and an eye-glass combined, Like one who could ride and was almost purblind; For the rest—but enough—I've this Valentine sent, Supposing no other but you could be meant.

Lately I saw, with horror and dismay, An uncouth animal, which crossed my way: Or dog, or man, or whether both it were: At the first sight I could not well declare. Close as I gazed at this outlandish elf, At length—amazed! I found it was yourself; Your's were those eyes, and your's that hair I saw, That hair as straggling, and as coarse as straw, Your's was that beard, and your's that whiskered brush, As stiff and bristly as a blacking-brush. But wherefore need I specify the rest, Since, just above, your portrait is exprest. Look at it—trace it in each faithful line, 'Tis evidently yours, my Valentine.