At the noise of the fiddle and drum,
All night has the trumpet-vine quivered and quaked,
As the sounds of the dancing have come;
Till the chickens and cocks in the hen-roost waked,
And they stopped the fiddle and drum.
I said to the tulip, “It’s I,” says I,
Whom she likes best of them all;
“When will they let her alone?” says I,
“She’s tired I know of the ball.
Now part of the folks have said good-bye,