Oh, who loves Prince Philibert?
Who but myself?
His foot’s in the stirrup;
His book’s on the shelf;
His dapple-grey Dobbin
Attends to his whip,
And rocks up and down
On the floor like a ship.
I went to the pond with him,
Just like the sea,
To swim his three-decker
That’s named after me;
His cheeks were like roses;
He knew all the rocks;
He looks like a sailor
In grey knickerbocks.
Oh, where is the keepsake
I gave you, my prince?
I keep yours in a drawer
That smells of a quince:
So how can I lose it?
But you, giddy thing!
Keep mine in your pocket,
Mixed up with some string.
Remember the riddle
I told you last week!
And how I forgave you
That scratch on the cheek!
You could not have helped it,--
You never would strike,
Intending to do it,
The girl that you like!
You call me Miss Stupid,
You call me Miss Prue;
But how do you like me
In crimson and blue?
We go partners in findings,
And money, and that,
You help me in ciphering;
Look at my hat!
I love you, Prince Philibert!
Who but myself?
With your foot in the stirrup,
Your book on the shelf!
We call you a prince, John,
But oh, when you crack
The nuts we go halves in,
You’re my Filbert Jack!
[Illustration]