Oh, treat me not with cold disdain,

My pretty maids of fashion;

Look upon the hearts you've slain,

And listen to my passion.

Though I am not so peerly proud

As men of higher station,

So handsome that the madding crowd

Collects in admiration;

And have, perhaps, too great a store

Of sandy hair and freckles,

I've mortgages and bonds galore,

And muchly many shekels.

You yet may journey league or mile

To wed, as you're aware.

Come, cease your longing for mere style,

And take A. MILLIONNAIRE.