Closed is the light-red pimpernel.
Hark! how the chairs and tables crack,
Old Betty’s joints are on the rack;
Her corns with shooting pains torment her,
And to her bed untimely send her.
Loud quack the ducks, the sea-fowls cry,
The distant hills are looking nigh.
How restless are the snorting swine!
The busy flies disturb the kine.
Low o’er the grass the swallow wings,