It ripen’d by the river banks,
Where, musk and moonlight aiding,
Dons Whiskerandos play sad pranks,
Dark Donnas serenading.

By Moorish maiden it was pluck’d,
Who broke some hearts, they say, then,
By Saxon sweetheart it was suck’d,—
Who threw the peel away then.

How little thought the London Fair,
Or dark-eyed Girl of Seville,
That I should reel upon that peel,
And find my proper level!