An’ the stone-deaf ears, who lives i’ the lane—
She stepped so soft an’ she says “Rose-Jane!
You’re eating plum porridge (ye poor wee loon!)
Eating it hot in a rare blue moon.
You’ve a dimpled face like a rosy June,
But your mouth’ll be burnt
Before you’ve learnt
The way of a man in the moon.
And then they’ll call you ‘Old Rose-Jane
Who went hot-lovering down the lane.’