  Little Goose, I love thee, little Goose. All the stars are flinging Bright blue beams above me, As I'm sweetly singing How I dearly love thee. Here I'm waiting; is it any use? Little Goose, More than words can tell I love thee dearly, More than tongue can tell—or very nearly. Little Goose, I love thee, little Goose. The shadows cling together, The moonbeams give sweet kisses; How I wonder whether We shall know such blisses. To my mother you I'll introduce, Little Goose. She will greet you with a smile so cheery, Like a mother kind—or very nearly. Little Goose, I love thee, little Goose. Hark, the farmer's coming With his ugly rifle; So I must be roaming, For I dare not trifle: And the watch-dog he will now unloose, Little Goose. Some night in the future I'll come really, Make you all my own—or very nearly. |
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