WE the fairies, blithe and antic,

Of dimensions not gigantic,

Though the moonshine mostly keep us,

Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.

Stolen sweets are always sweeter,

Stolen kisses much completer,

Stolen looks are nice in chapels,

Stolen, stolen be your apples.

When to bed the world is bobbing,

Then’s the time for orchard-robbing;

Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling

Were it not for stealing, stealing.