O, ho, quoth old Linnæus,
The Man of the Linden-tree.
Quoth he, ’Tis my conviction
These innocents must be wed!
So he murmured a benediction,
And blessed their fragrant bed;
And the butterflies fanned their blushes
And the red-cap whistled in glee,
They are married by old Linnæus,
Linnæus, Papa Linnæus!