With a dear little petulant cry;
But the Moon, the old Moon, looked aslant,
With a comical twist in her eye;
And the mulga bush, lingering near,
Caught up the defiant refrain,
And “I shan’t! Oh, I shan’t!”
In a musical chant,
Was re-echoed again and again.
“But Lucretia, my dearest, you will!”
Our Superbus persisted—and soon