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Singalongohnay was squeaking out her eternal requiems her new versions of the Psalms and Scriptures her blank verse elegiacs oh! how blank! beginning, 'Night was upon the hills, or 'The evening veil hung low, or, 'It slept, or after some other equally threatening form and fashion I can fancy how the bright eye of Margaret would gleam with scorn; and while the Pollies and Dollies, the Patties and Jennies, the Corydons and Jemmy Jesamies, all round were throwing up hands and eyes in a sort of rapture, how she would look, with what equal surprise and contempt, doubting her own ears, and sickening at the stuff and the strange sycophancy which induced it.
And should good old Singalongohnay, with a natural and patronizing visage, approach, and venture to talk to her about poetry, with that assured smile of self-excellence which such a venerable authority naturally employs, how she would turn upon the dame and exclaim 'What! do you call that poetry? What a concussion would follow.
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