When half the poplar-leaves are shed,
When silence reigns at Maidenhead,
And autumn dwindles,
'Tis good to lounge upon that lawn,
Though beauties of last June are gone
From Skindle's.
We toiled in June all down to Bray,
And yarns we spun for Mab and May;
O, who would think such girls as they
Would turn out swindles?