| It was on the banks of a clear, flowing stream
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| That first I accosted that comely young dame
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| And in great confusion I did ask her name
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| Are you Flora, Aurora, or the fame queen of Tyre?
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| She answered, «I'm neither, I’m Sheila Nee Iyer
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| Go rhyming, rogue, let my flocks roam in peace
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| You won’t find amongst them that famed Golden Fleece
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| Or the tresses of Helen, that goddess of Greece
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| Have hanked 'round your heart like a doll of desire
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| Be off to your speirbhean,"said Sheila Nee Iyer
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| May the sufferings of Sisyphus fall to my share
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| And may I the torments of Tantalus bear
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| To the dark land of Hades let my soul fall an heir
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| Without linnet in song or a note on the lyre
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| If ever I prove false to you, Sheila Nee Iyer
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| Oh had I the wealth of the Orient store
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| Or the gems of Peru or the Mexican ore
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| Or the hand of the Midas to mold o’er and o’er
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| Bright bracelets of gold or of flaming sapphire
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| I’d robe you in splendor, my Sheila Nee Iyer |