And the tip of your nose was as blue, I suppose,
As the blue of your dear, dear eyes.
We sailed to Hampton Court,
And the sun had burnt us black;
Then we dodged a shower for the half of an hour,
And then we skated back;
Till the weather grew depressed
At the shifting state of its luck,
And the glass, set fair, gave it up in despair,
And much of the lightning struck.