Love toss’d off the glass of time, as though it had been only gin,
Love dwelt in those dreary chambers three pairs up in Lincoln’s Inn.
When my master had departed, and I felt unwatched and free,
Would my Amy come to see me, and assist in making tea.
Many a Sunday by the railway did we go to Hampton Court,
When the chestnuts were in blossom, and the days were not so short;
Many a Sunday on the water, made we inexpensive trips,
Talking then was not the only use to which we put our lips.
Oh! my Amy, Amy, Amy! Oh! my Amy, mine no more!
Oh! the dreary, dreary Sundays; Bushy has become a bore.