She hid herself in the soirÉe kettle
Out of her Ma's way, wise, wee maid!
Wan was her lip as the lily's petal,
Sad was the smile that over it played.
Why doth she warble not? Is she afraid
Of the hound that howls, or the moaning mole?
Can it be on an errand she hath delayed?
Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul!

The nightingale sings to the nodding nettle
In the gloom o' the gloaming athwart the glade:
The zephyr sighs soft on PopÒcatapÈtl,
And Auster is taking it cool in the shade:
Sing, hey, for a gutta serenade!
Not mine to stir up a storied pole,
No noses snip with a bluggy blade—
Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul!

Shall I bribe with a store of minted metal?
With Everton toffee thee persuade?
That thou in a kettle thyself shouldst settle,
When grandly and gaudily all arrayed!
Thy flounces 'ill foul and fangles fade.
Come out, and Algernon Charles 'ill roll
Thee safe and snug in Plutonian plaid—
Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul!

ENVOI

When nap is none and raiment frayed,
And winter crowns the puddered poll,
A kettle sings ane soote ballade—
Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul.

John Twig.