Ay, and things are just as they seem, my child,
To the likes of your fine old mother.
“Put the dreams one side; give your head a chance,
For the heart discerns but poorly,
And it beats the time of a mad wild dance,
When a lover has gripped it surely.
There is one wise heart in the wanton whirl,
Though you find through life no other;
And it beats with a sober pulse, my girl,
In the breast of your grand old mother.