NOW upon the trellis sitting,
Now along the fencetop flitting,
    Meekly modest in my attitudes and poses;
’Neath my breast incarnadine
Can this midget heart of mine
    Hold one half the vanity my song discloses?

First a nervous little flutter,
Now a chirp and now a stutter,
    Then I lift my snow-flecked crown to the refrain
Of my plaintive little ditty:
“Oh, the pity! What a pity!
    Oh, and isn’t it a pity my poor Jenny is so plain!”

See, my burning front of flame
Puts the crimson rose to shame;
    And my singing leads the chorus of the morning;
But my silent little mate,
Mute upon the garden gate,
    Sober jenny, hasn’t any such adorning.

Tho’ I’m handsomer than others,
Do not think I boast, my brothers;
    I’m the meekest little chorister a-wing.
Still, I’m tuneful, wise and witty,
Can you doubt, who hears my ditty?
    “Ah, but isn’t it a pity that my Jenny cannot sing!”