"Where is your mandolin, Pierrot?"
"I gave it to a youngster long ago.
Finger-tips grown stiff are clumsy things
To wake the poem sleeping in the strings.
Heigh-ho !
I gave it to a youngster long ago."
"Where is your yellow ruff, Pierrot?"
"It went into the rag-bag long ago.
A ruff should rise to meet a beardless chin,
And flower round a throat with music in.
Heigh-ho!
It went into the rag-bag long ago."
"But where are all your songs, Pierrot?"
"I gave them to a lady long ago.
There were roses and a cross upon her breast,
And I hid my broken songs among the rest.
Heigh-ho !
I gave them to a lady long ago."