Oh, the little yachting cap

That is lying in her lap

Has a sort of fascination for poor me.

It is made of something white,

And she wears it day and night,

Through the weeks she spends each summer by the sea.

She can make of it a fan,

And, when necessary, can

Hide her face behind it, if she chance to blush.

It has carried caramels,

Chocolate drops, and pretty shells,

And I've even seen her use it as a brush.

But still it has one fault

In my eyes. I'd better halt,

Had I not, and ponder well what I shall say?

She is darting warning glances.

Well, under certain circumstances,

The visor's always getting in my way.