Of all the poor old Tobits a-groping in the street,
A Lover is the blindest that ever I did meet,
For he’s blind, he’s blind, he’s very blind,—
He’s as blind as any mole!
He thinks his love the fairest that ever yet was clasp’d,
Though her clay is overbaked, and it never has been rasp’d.
For he’s blind, &c.
He thinks her face an angel’s, although it’s quite a frump’s,
Like a toad a-taking physic, or a monkey in the mumps.
For he’s blind, &c.
Upon her graceful figure then how he will insist,
Though she’s all so much awry, she can only eat a twist!
For he’s blind, &c.
He’ll swear that in her dancing she cuts all others out,
Though like a Gal that’s galvanised, she throws her legs about.
For he’s blind, &c.
If he should have a letter in answer to his sighs,
He’ll put it to his lips up, instead of to his eyes.
For he’s blind, &c.
Then if he has a meeting the question for to put,
In suing for her hand he’ll be kneeling at her foot.
For he’s blind, &c.
Oh Love is like a furnace wherein a Lover lies,
And like a pig before the fire, he scorches out his eyes.
Till he’s blind, &c.