Death has a lodge in lips as red as cherries,
Death has a mansion in the yew-tree berries.
They sat there talking after tea was done,
And Jimmy blushed at Anna's sparkling looks,
And Anna flattered mother on her son,
Catching both fishes on her subtle hooks.
With twilight, tea and talk in ingle-nooks,
And music coming up from the dim street,
Mother had never known a fair so sweet.
Now cow-bells clink, for milking-time is come,