My Philip dear, come here! come here!
Philip, my dear! Philip, Philip, my dear!”
Poor mournful Mrs. Flycatcher,
With ample breast of dainty buff,
Now don’t you think you’ve called your mate,—
To say the very least—enough?
I’m sorry for you, plaintive one;
I would be glad to make him fly
From his long tarrying place to you,
If that would stop your weary cry.