Pretty brook, thy dream is over,
For thy love is but a rover
Sad the lot of poplar trees
Courted by the fickle breeze.
Enter the General’s daughters, all in white peignoirs and nightcaps, and carrying lighted candles.
Girls. Now, what is this, and what is that, and why does father leave his rest
At such a time as this, so very incompletely dressed?
Dear father is, and always was, the most methodical of men;
It’s his invariable rule to go to bed at half-past ten.