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THE MAID OF LODI.

I the maid of Lodi,

Who sweetly sung to me,

Whose brows were never cloudy,

Nor o’er distort with glee.

She values not the wealthy,

Unless they're great and good,

For she is strong and healthy,

And by labour earns her food.

And when her day’s work’s over;

Around a cheerful fire,

She sings, or rests contented;

What more can man desire?

Let those who squander millions

Review her happy lot,

They’ll find their proud pavillions

Far inferior to her cot.

Between the Po and Parma,

Some villains seiz’d my coach,

And dragg’d me to a cavern,

Most dreadful to approach;

By which the maid of Lodi

Came trotting from the fair;

She paus'd to hear my wailings,

And see me tear my hair.