I’m getting too—too big to kiss.
’Tis hardly a year since the guests of the house,
On leaving, would kiss me adieu,
The parson, the deacon, old Schnider Von Krouse,
Ned Blanc, and the young squire, too.
They called me a treasure, a sweet, roguish maid;
Now nonsense like that is amiss,
Though once ’twas a pleasure, I’m really afraid
That somebody’s too big to kiss.
Now if you should happen by moonlight to walk,