Half hid by her snowy umbrella?
The Infant is drifting down in her canoe,
The Rector his cob canters by on;
The church clock is chiming a quarter-past two,
Near the "Lion"!
Shall I drop off to sleep, or moon here all day,
And drowsily finish my ballad?
No! "Luncheon is ready," I hear some one say;
"A lobster, a chicken, a salad:"
A cool silver cup of the beadiest ale,