Beauteous infant, dearest boy,
Whither did thy sister hie?
Her favourite hill, and brook, and glade
See not, to day, the charming maid.
Has she led her new-shorn flock
Through the vale, or towards the rock?
Went she forth at early morn?
Will she, ere the noon, return?
Tell me;—ah! if tell thou wilt,
Purple-streak’d and orange-gilt,
This apple,—larger, look, and finer
Than yesterday I gave at dinner,
This I’ll give;—aye this, and more,
There’s a little bird in store,
A lovely bird, and green his wing,
Round his neck a silken string.—
Silent yet!—O, thankless elf!
Thankless, even as herself.
Stubborn chit!—no more to thee,
Listening, leaning on my knee,
Will I tell delightful tales
Of dancing fays in moonlight vales.
Mingling all I sing, or say,
With kisses kind, and frolic play.
What!—hush!—call thy mother!—fye!
Faithless hope!—perfidious boy!
The mother’s here, with passion wild,
This it is to trust a child!
Here take the apple,—get along
Little fool,—and hold thy tongue!