Can you tell, dear Fanny, what might it be,
That the stars looked down on so pleasantly?
There stood two forms by that moonlit grove.
In the night-air damp and cold,
And one was lovely and meet for love,
And one was of manly mould;
To the winking stars, in their arch above,
Was a gentle secret told.
Can you say, sweet Fanny, what might it be
Was whispered last night so tenderly?