Sweet Phyllis sat upon a stile,
With love and me beside her,
Her red lips in a pouting smile.
A pout? Her eyes belied her.
My thoughts were merry as the day,—
And though the joke was shocking,—
I shouted quick, and turned away:
“A spider's on your stocking!”
The fun, of course, I did not see,
But heard an exclamation
That sounded much like “Gracious me!”
And guessed the consternation.
Then Phyllis sat upon the style
Of men who would deride her;
But she no longer sits the while
With love and me beside her.