In the castle-ditch where foxglove grows,—

A wrinkled, wizen'd, and bearded Elf,

Spectacles stuck on his pointed nose,

Silver buckles to his hose,

Leather apron-shoe in his lap—

"Rip-rap, tip-tap,

Tack-tack-too!

(A green cricket on my cap!

Away the moth flew!)

Buskins for a fairy prince,