  OH, who loves Prince Philibert? Who but myself? His foot’s in the stirrup; His book’s on the shelf; 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! |
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