LITTLE Anna, cruel elf,
Spite of all my reason,
She, she puts me from myself,
In and out of season;
Ah, the imp! ah, the shrimp!
Glee to Mischief wedded;
Foe to rest—she’s a pest,
And always to be dreaded!
When I see her bonnie blink,
I’m upraised to heaven;
When upon her ways I think,
I’m to limbo driven.
Like the lammie on the lea,
Void of harm she seemeth,
All the while on mad pranks, she—
Daily, hourly dreameth.
Never goes the sun around,
But upon me stealing,
She, she does my soul confound—
Sends my reason reeling—
Gars me sing, and while, alack!
I in glee am singing,
On me turns, and in a crack,
Gives my ear a-wringing!
Pat, she comes and goes—the wasp!—
Back anon she hummeth,
‘Round my neck her hands to clasp,
That to do she cometh;
So she leads me to suppose,
By her air entrancing,
Till I’m twitted by the nose,
And again sent dancing!
Ear or nose, or wrung or stung,
'Tween a thumb and finger,
How to be avenged now, long
Lost in doubt I linger;
Then when I resolved at last,
Rush her pride to humble,
Lo, o’er me a glamour cast,
O’er the stools I tumble.
She—the fay!—well-a-day!—
Nearly drives me frantic;
Night and day gars me play
Many a foolish antic;
Fain would I her presence fly,
Fain keep at a distance,
But her rein once on, ay then,
Vain were man’s resistance.
Head a-turned, heart a-burned—
Nay, reduced to cinders—
Nose a-stung, ears a-wrung,
Shins all sent to flinders!
Pale and thin—bone and skin,
I’m a spectre merely,
And he who’d play my part might say,
He’d bought his whistle dearly.
Other works by Joseph Skipsey...
