She plucked a blossom fair to see;
Upon my coat I let her pin it;
And thus we stood beneath the tree
To be a great musician you must be a man of moods,
You have to be, to understand sonatas and etudes.
To execute pianos and to fiddle with success,
When first we met she seemed so white
I feared her;
As one might near a spirit bright
In our dainty little kitchen,
Where my aproned wife is queen
Over all the tin-pan people,
In a realm exceeding clean,
Listen, ladies, while I sing
The ballad of John Henry King.
John Henry was a bachelor,
Behold, my child, this touching scene,
The golfer on the golfing-green;
Pray mark his legs’ uncanny swing,
The golf-walk is a gruesome thing!
Whene’er I feed the barnyard folk
My gentle soul is vexed;
My sensibilities are torn
A Scotchman whose name was Isbister
Had a maiden giraffe he called 'sister'
When she said 'Oh, be mine,
Be my sweet Valentine!'
Said Congress to George Washington:
"To set this country free,
When young, in tones quite positive
I said, "The world shall see
That I can keep myself from sin;
A good man I will be."