I waited on in rapture, and harkened to the strain,
I paused until she finished, and commenced the song again,
And O the magic pathos, of her voice was such, I say'd
"I'll warble when she's finished, an Italian serenade."
And so anon I warbled a heart bewitching thrill,
All in the friendly darkness, beneath her window sill,
I thought it might remind her, of the troubadours of old,
Tho' 'twasn't too romantic, for the night was dev'lish cold!
It wasn't all Italian, but it was much the same,
It was a sweet impromptu, a song without a name,