It sinks with rapture—on my plate!
When cutlets smoke at half-past three—
And then, my love! I think on thee.
But, see the hour-glass, moments fly—
The sand runs out—and so must I!
Parting is so sweet a sorrow,
I could manger till to-morrow!
One embrace, ere I again
Homeward hie to Huggin Lane;
And sure as goose begins with G,