Of course the young lady had beaux by the score, All that she wanted,--what girl could ask more? Lovers that sighed, and lovers that swore, Lovers that danced, and lovers that played, Men of profession, of leisure, and trade; But one, who was destined to take the high part Of holding that mythical treasure, her heart,-- This lover--the wonder and envy of town-- Was a practising chemist,--a fellow called Brown. I might here remark that 'twas doubted by many, In regard to the heart, if Miss Addie had any; But no one could look in that eloquent face, With its exquisite outline, and features of grace, And mark, through the transparent skin, how the tide Ebbed and flowed at the impulse of passion or pride,-- None could look, who believed in the blood's circulation As argued by Harvey, but saw confirmation, That here, at least, Nature had triumphed o'er art, And, as far as complexion went, she had a heart. But this, _par parenthesis_. Brown was the man Preferred of all others to carry her fan, Hook her glove, drape her shawl, and do all that a belle May demand of the lover she wants to treat well. Folks wondered and stared that a fellow called Brown-- Abstracted and solemn, in manner a clown, Ill dressed, with a lingering smell of the shop-- Should appear as her escort at party or hop. Some swore he had cooked up some villanous charm, Or love philter, not in the regular Pharm-- Acopea, and thus, from pure _malis prepense_, Had bewitched and bamboozled the young lady's sense; Others thought, with more reason, the secret to lie In a magical wash or indelible dye; While Society, with its censorious eye And judgment impartial, stood ready to damn What wasn't improper as being a sham. For a fortnight the townfolk had all been agog With a party, the finest the season had seen, To be given in honor of Miss Pollywog, Who was just coming out as a belle of sixteen. The guests were invited: but one night before, A carriage drew up at the modest back-door Of Brown's lab'ratory; and, full in the glare Of a big purple bottle, some closely-veiled fair Alighted and entered: to make matters plain, Spite of veils and disguises,--'twas Addie De Laine. As a bower for true love, 'twas hardly the one That a lady would choose to be wooed in or won: No odor of rose or sweet jessamine's sigh Breathed a fragrance to hallow their pledge of troth by, Nor the balm that exhales from the odorous thyme; But the gaseous effusions of chloride of lime, And salts, which your chemist delights to explain As the base of the smell of the rose and the drain. Think of this, O ye lovers of sweetness! and know What you smell, when you snuff up Lubin or Pinaud.