I heard a little lamb cry, ba;
Says I, so you have lost mamma?
Ah!
The little lamb, as I said so,
Frisking about the field did go,
And frisking, trod upon my toe.
Oh!
'Neat enough,' said I, 'only that it wants the word love in it.'
'True,' cried Stuart; 'for all modern poems of the kind abound in the word, though they seldom have much of the feeling.'
'And pray, my good friend,' asked I archly, as I bound up my golden ringlets—'What is love?'