And then he will glorious rise
With body fitted to the skies,
An Angel’s form, not Butterfly’s!
There was an old wo-man tos-sed up in a bas-ket,
Nine-ty times as high as the moon;
And where she was go-ing, I could-n’t but ask her,
For in her hand she car-ried a broom.
“Old wo-man, old wo-man, old wo-man,” quoth I,
“Whi-ther, O whi-ther, O whi-ther so high?”
“To sweep the cob-webs off the sky!”
“Shall I go with you?” “Aye, by-and-by.”
To make your candles last for a’,
You wives and maids give ear-o!
To put them out ’s the only way,
Says honest John Boldero.