I, melancholy as a cat,
Am kept awake to peep;
But she, insensible of that,
Sound as a top can sleep.
Hard is her heart as flint or stone;
She laughs to see me pale;
And merry as a grig is grown,
And brisk as bottled ale.
The God of Love, at her approach,
Is busy as a bee!
Hearts sound as any bell or roach
Are smit, and sigh like me.
Ah me! as thick as hops or hail,
The fine men crowd about her:
But soon as dead as a door-nail
Shall I be, if without her.
Straight as my leg her shape appears;
O were we join'd together!
My heart would be scotfree from cares,
And lighter than a feather.
As fine as fivepence is her mien;
No drum was ever tighter;
Her glance is as the razor keen,
And not the sun is brighter.
As soft as pap her kisses are:
Methinks I taste them yet;
Brown as a berry is her hair,
Her eyes as black as jet.
As smooth as glass, as white as curds,
Her pretty hand invites;
