It was a winter evening,
The moon was shining bright,
When from a lady’s parlor
Came sounds of laughter light.
But, suddenly, the scene is changed,
There’s heard a warning shriek,
And borne upon the air the words,
"Oh! dear, will no one speak?"
Unheeding trap, just at her feet,
Comes with majestic mien
A damsel of sweet presence,
And smiling all serene.
Her eyes are like the glowworm,
Her cheeks like damask rose,
She holds her head so loftily,
She looks not at her toes;
When, roused from contemplation sweet
Of bottles ale and stout,
A head above the trap appears—
"What’s all this row about?
I see, I see, Miss Flora, dear,
You’d all but tumbled down;
One further step, and you’d have fall’n
On my unlucky crown.
Oh! had you tumbled on my head
In yonder cellar well,
We now, alas, been both quite dead"—
A sad old tale to tell.
How youth and beauty often fall
Into some snare unseen,
As so hath chanced in many a day
And yet full oft I ween,
While thoughtless youth with eager step
Pursues its heedless way.