OUR house is very high and red,
The steps are very white,
The balcony is full of flowers,
The knocker's very bright.
The hall has got a coloured lamp,
A rack for father's hat,
And pegs for coats: a curious word[A]
Is printed on the mat.
The kitchen ticks too loud at night,
It is a horrid place;
Black-beetles run about the floor
At a most dreadful pace.
The cellar is quite black with coal,
The cat goes scratching there;
People go tramping past above,
But nobody knows where.
The dining-room has rosy walls,
And silver knives and forks,
And when I listen at the door,
I hear the popping corks.
The library smells like new boots,
It is a woolly room;
The housemaid comes at eight o'clock
And sweeps it with a broom.
The staircase has a thousand rods
That rattle if you kick,
And when the twilight makes it blue
I rush up very quick.
The landing is a dismal place,
The bannisters creak so,
The door-knobs twinkle horribly,
The gas is always low.
The drawing-room is cold and white,
The chairs have crooked legs;
Silk ladies rustle in and out
While Fido sits and begs.