Give, said the little stream, Give, oh give, give, oh give, As it hurried down the hill. I am small, I know, but wherever I go The fields grow greener still.
And this was your Cradle? Why, surely, my Jenny, Such cozy dimensions go clearly to show You were an exceedingly small pickaninny, Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.
Vanitas vanitatum has rung in the ears Of gentle and simple for thousands of years; The wail still is heard, yet its notes never scare Either simple or gentle from Vanity Fair.