Yolenta of Corteryke sat in her bower,
Which was not an arbour
Where earwigs might harbour,
And availing themselves of some al fresco tea-table,
Lie and kick on their backs amidst everything eatable,
But the very best room in the very best tower.
Yolenta was young and Yolenta was fair,
She’d extremely pink cheeks and extremely smooth hair,
And a pair of bright eyes with so roguish a glance in ’em,
That the spirit of mischief and fun seemed to dance in ’em;