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Page:A Reed by the River.djvu/75

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THE BALLAD OF SWEET P
Mistress Penelope Penwick, she
Called by her father, "My Sweet P,"
Painted by Peale, she won renown
In a clinging, short-waisted satin gown;
A red rose held by her finger-tips,
And a smile held back from her roguish lips.

William Penwick, the jolly wight,
In clouds of smoke, night after night,
Would tell a tale in delighted pride,
To cronies who came from far and wide,
Always ending,—with candle he,—
"And this is the picture of My Sweet P!"

The tale?—'Twas how Sweet P did chance
To give to the British a Christmas dance.
Penwick's house an outpost stood,
Flanked by the ferry, and banked by the wood;
Hessian and British quartered there
Swarmed through chamber and hall and stair.

Fires ablaze and candles bright,
Soldier and officer feasted that night.
The enemy?—Safe, with a river between,
Black and deadly and fierce and keen,
A river of ice and a blinding storm,—
So they made them merry and kept them warm.

But while they mirth and roistering made
Up in her dormer window stayed
Mistress Penelope Penwick apart,
With fearful thought, and sorrowful heart.
Night after night her candle's gleam
Had sent through the dark its hopeful beam;

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