O child, why do you weep?
With tears that slowly seep
Down apple blossom cheeks
In sullen telltale streaks.
There's music in the air
At springtide's flowery fair,
With father sounding bass,
Charming silver into case;
Taut plucks the fiddle's tune—
You'll dance your party soon
In satin shoes so fine
And dress of celandine!
But gossamer chiffon,
A thread so woebegone,
Entwines the sinewed hand
Away from threesome's band,
Luring it instead
To stroke the curls of golden head—
Soon to drift the silent bliss,
Lulled by gentle, dulcet kiss!
Child and father fill the scene,
Swaying softly on the green,
As apple blossom dreams beguile—
O woman, why is it you smile?