Fanchon the Cricket
My grandsire, years and years ago,
In round old English used to praise
Sweet Maggie Mitchell's pretty ways
And her fair face that charmed him so.
Her tuneful voice and curly hair,
Her coquetry and subtle art
Ensnared my grandsire's willing heart
And ever reigned supremely there.
In time my father felt the force
Of cunning Maggie Mitchell's smiles,
And, dazzled by her thousand wiles,
He sang her glories too, of course.
Quite natural, then, it was that I —
Of such a sire and grandsire, too —
When this dear sprite first met my view
Should learn to rhapsodize and sigh.
And now my boy — of tender age —
Indites a sonnet to the curl
Of this most fascinating girl
That ever romped the mimic stage!
O prototype of girlhood truth,
Of girlhood glee and girlhood prank,
By what good fortune hast thou drank
The waters of eternal youth?
In round old English used to praise
Sweet Maggie Mitchell's pretty ways
And her fair face that charmed him so.
Her tuneful voice and curly hair,
Her coquetry and subtle art
Ensnared my grandsire's willing heart
And ever reigned supremely there.
In time my father felt the force
Of cunning Maggie Mitchell's smiles,
And, dazzled by her thousand wiles,
He sang her glories too, of course.
Quite natural, then, it was that I —
Of such a sire and grandsire, too —
When this dear sprite first met my view
Should learn to rhapsodize and sigh.
And now my boy — of tender age —
Indites a sonnet to the curl
Of this most fascinating girl
That ever romped the mimic stage!
O prototype of girlhood truth,
Of girlhood glee and girlhood prank,
By what good fortune hast thou drank
The waters of eternal youth?
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