What her eyes were like, I know not: 
      Perhaps they were blurr’d with tears;
   And perhaps in your skies there glow not
      (On the contrary) clearer spheres. 
No! as to her eyes I am just as wise
   As you or the cat, my dears.

   Her teeth, I presume, were “pearly”: 
      But which was she, brunette or blonde? 
   Her hair, was it quaintly curly,
      Or as straight as a beadle’s wand? 
That I fail’d to remark;—­it was rather dark
   And shadowy round the pond.

   Then the hand that reposed so snugly
      In mine—­was it plump or spare? 
   Was the countenance fair or ugly? 
      Nay, children, you have me there! 
My eyes were p’raps blurr’d; and besides I’d heard
   That it’s horribly rude to stare.

   And I—­was I brusque and surly? 
      Or oppressively bland and fond? 
   Was I partial to rising early? 
      Or why did we twain abscond,
All breakfastless too, from the public view
   To prowl by a misty pond?

   What pass’d, what was felt or spoken —
      Whether anything pass’d at all —
   And whether the heart was broken
      That beat under that shelt’ring shawl —
(If shawl she had on, which I doubt)—­has gone,
   Yes, gone from me past recall.

   Was I haply the lady’s suitor? 
      Or her uncle?  I can’t make out —
   Ask your governess, dears, or tutor. 
      For myself, I’m in hopeless doubt
As to why we were there, who on earth we were,
   And what this is all about.

BALLAD.

The auld wife sat at her ivied door,
   (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
A thing she had frequently done before;
   And her spectacles lay on her apron’d knees.

The piper he piped on the hill-top high,
   (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
Till the cow said “I die,” and the goose ask’d “Why?”
   And the dog said nothing, but search’d for fleas.

The farmer he strode through the square farmyard;
   (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
His last brew of ale was a trifle hard —
   The connexion of which with the plot one sees.

The farmer’s daughter hath frank blue eyes;
   (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies,
   As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.

The farmer’s daughter hath ripe red lips;
   (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
If you try to approach her, away she skips
   Over tables and chairs with apparent ease.

The farmer’s daughter hath soft brown hair;
   (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
And I met with a ballad, I can’t say where,
   Which wholly consisted of lines like these.

PART II.

She sat with her hands ’neath her dimpled cheeks,
   (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
And spake not a word.  While a lady speaks
   There is hope, but she didn’t even sneeze.