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An Attempt at Saphic [[?]] One morn, when earth was free from snow, And springs had not forgot to flow, A man went forth to plow and hoe, His name was Ichabod Breverly. [[?]] His hat was in condition sad, Whate'er his thoughts were good, or bad, He there recorded all he had, Of chalk was made his memory. Tall was his form- his hair coal black, Hung like a lynch pin down his back, An eel skin kept it in its sack, With gripe [[?]] of French fraternity. He met a man, and I know who, Said he kind friend, how do you do? I'm pretty well- how is't with you? I thank you, I am cleverly.