It is all very well for the poets to tell,
By way of their song adorning,
Of milkmaids who rouse, to manipulate cows,
At Five o'clock in the morning;
And of moony young mowers who bundle out doors —
The charms of their straw-beds scorning —
Before break of day, to make love and hay,
At Five o'clock in the morning!

But, between me and you, it is all untrue —
Believe not a word they utter;
To no milkmaid alive does the finger of Five
Bring a beau — or even bring butter.
The poor sleepy cows, if told to arouse,
Might do so with some suborning;
But the sweet country girls, would they show their curls
At Five o'clock in the morning?

It is all very well to sing or to tell,
But if I were a maid, all forlorn-ing,
And a lover should drop in the clover, to pop,
At Five o'clock in the morning, —
If I liked him, you see, I 'd say, " Please call at Three; "
If not, I 'd turn on him with scorning:
" Don't come here, you flat, with conundrums like that,
At Five o'clock in the morning! "