She had the Appleton mouth, it seemed, And the Appleton way of riding, But when she sorrowed and if she dreamed, Something came out from hiding. She could sew all day on an Appleton hem And look like a saint in plaster, But when the fiddles began to play And her feet beat fast but her heart beat faster An alien grace inhabited them And she looked like her father, the dancing-master, The scapegrace elegant, “French” Dupré, Come to the South on a luckless day, With bright paste buckles sewn on his pumps. A habit of holding the ace of trumps, And a manner of kissing a lady’s hand Which the county failed to understand. He stole Sue Appleton’s heart away With eyes that were neither black nor grey, And broke the heart of the Brookes’ best mare To marry her safely with time to spare While the horsewhip uncles toiled behind⁠— He knew his need and she knew her mind. And the love they had was as bright and brief As the dance of the gilded maple-leaf,