  IT chanced, they say, upon a day, A furlong from the town, That she was strolling up the way As he was strolling down— She humming low, as might be so, A ditty sweet and small; He whistling loud a tune, you know, That had no tune at all. It happened so—precisely so— As all their friends and neighbours know. As I and you perhaps might do, They gazed upon the ground; But when they’d gone a yard or two Of course they both looked round. They both were pained, they both explained What caused their eyes to roam; And nothing after that remained But he should see her home. It happened so—precisely so Next day to that ’twas common chat, Admitting no debate, A bonnet close beside a hat Was sitting on a gate. A month, not more, had bustled o’er, When, braving nod and smile, One blushing soul came through the door Where two went up the aisle. It happened so—precisely so— As all their friends and neighbours know. Frederick Langbridge. |
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