Henry S. Leigh

Nay, I cannot come into the garden just now, Tho' it vexes me much to refuse: But I must have the next set of waltzes, I vow,

Oh, the days were ever shiny When I ran to meet my love; When I press'd her hand so tiny

In form and feature, face and limb, I grew so like my brother, That folks got taking me for him,