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The Mistletoe Gatherer.
Your grandmother says you are madder,
Dear Ellen, than any March hare;
Why keep me at the foot of the ladder,
While you're mounting up in the air?

Nature did not create you a middy,
To dwell at a vessel's masthead;
Gran declares you have made her so giddy,
She must go and lie down on her bed.

And think of my feelings, keep steady,
If you love me, don't venture so too high;
I know you're an angel already,
Don't prove it by nearing the sky.

I'm poor Jack, down below, watching under
My sweet little cherub aloft;
Should you fall—Heaven avert such a blunder!—
Fall on me, you will find I am soft.