She sat, with her hands ’neath her crimson cheeks;
   (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
She gave up mending her father’s breeks,
   And let the cat roll in her new chemise.

She sat, with her hands ’neath her burning cheeks,
   (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks;
   Then she follow’d him out o’er the misty leas.

Her sheep follow’d her, as their tails did them. 
   (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
And this song is consider’d a perfect gem,
   And as to the meaning, it’s what you please.

PRECIOUS STONES.  AN INCIDENT IN MODERN HISTORY.

My Cherrystones!  I prize them,
   No tongue can tell how much! 
Each lady caller eyes them,
   And madly longs to touch! 
At eve I lift them down, I look
   Upon them, and I cry;
Recalling how my Prince ‘partook’
   (Sweet word!) of cherry-pie!

To me it was an Era
   In life, that Dejeuner! 
They ate, they sipp’d Madeira
   Much in the usual way. 
Many a soft item there would be,
   No doubt, upon the carte: 
But one made life a heaven to me: 
   It was the cherry-tart.

Lightly the spoonfuls enter’d
   That mouth on which the gaze
Of ten fair girls was centred
   In rapturous amaze. 
Soon that august assemblage clear’d
   The dish; and—­as they ate —
The stones, all coyly, re-appear’d
   On each illustrious plate.

And when His Royal Highness
   Withdrew to take the air,
Waiving our natural shyness,
   We swoop’d upon his chair. 
Policemen at our garments clutch’d: 
   We mock’d those feeble powers;
And soon the treasures that had touch’d
   Exalted lips were ours!

One large one—­at the moment
   It seem’d almost divine —
Was got by that Miss Beaumont: 
   And three, O three, are mine! 
Yes! the three stones that rest beneath
   Glass, on that plain deal shelf,
Stranger, once dallied with the teeth
   Of Royalty itself.

Let Parliament abolish
   Churches and States and Thrones: 
With reverent hand I’ll polish
   Still, still my Cherrystones! 
A clod—­a piece of orange-peel
   An end of a cigar —
Once trod on by a Princely heel,
   How beautiful they are!

Years since, I climb’d Saint Michael
   His Mount:- you’ll all go there
Of course, and those who like’ll
   Sit in Saint Michael’s Chair: 
For there I saw, within a frame,
   The pen—­O heavens! the pen —
With which a Duke had sign’d his name,
   And other gentlemen.

“Great among geese,” I faltered,
   “Is she who grew that quill!”
And, Deathless Bird, unalter’d
   Is mine opinion still. 
Yet sometimes, as I view my three
   Stones with a thoughtful brow,
I think there possibly might be
   E’en greater geese than thou.