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FINETTE
FINETTE was young, Finette was fair,
And never a lover had she ;
Finette she cried, in her young despair,
"'Twere better we never should be;
The dance will go, and it irks me so,
Here by the lonely tree."
Gerome was hale, but Gerome was pale,
For a lover he fain would be,
And he would not know, though they told him so,
That the maiden he chose was free ;
So Gerome he stood in the dusky wood,
And a sorrowful wight was he.
