He.⁠⁠ I HAVE a song to sing, O!
She.⁠⁠Sing me your song, O!
He.⁠⁠It is sung to the moon
By a love-lorn loon,
Who fled from the mocking throng, O!
It's the song of a merryman, moping mum,
Whose soul was sad, and whose glance was glum,
Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye.
Heighdy! heighdy!
Misery me—lackadaydee!
He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye!