Gazing on her, gazing on her;
I stood stock still, she did the same,
Thinks I, I've made a blunder;
Just then her cheeks turn'd deadly pale,
Says I, "My love, what d'ye ail?"
Then she told me a dismal tale
That she was scar'd with thunder.
"Madam," says I, and made my bow,
Scraping to her, scraping to her;
"Madam," says I, and made my bow,