To Tree-Crickets

Constant mites that briskly whip

One measure over and over,

How like you are, a-harping there,

The larger sort of lover.

Scratch-scratch, scratch-scratch, all the night,

You twang it, brave and cheery;

One jerky stave, the whole night long,—

Deary—Deary—Deary.

High the moon rides, high and clear,

The filling dewdrops glisten;

Thrum, plucky lovers! well I know

Your little ladies listen.

Stick to 't, wooers! So will I,

Nor ever slightest vary

The one sweet word of all the world,—

Mary—Mary—Mary.