Sprig, Sprig--Oh lovely Sprig!
Oh, hast thou cub to stay?
Add wilt the little birdies sig
Throughout the livelog day?
What bessage dost thou brig to be,
Fair Lady of by dreabs--
Dost whisper of the babblig brook
Ad fishig poles ad streabs?
Those happy days have cub agaid,
The sweetest of the year,
Whed bad cad raise ad appetite
Ad wholesub thirst for beer.
I've often thought id wudder, Sprig,
Of how the lily grows,
But the thig that's botherig be dow
Is how to sprig dew clothes.
Sprig, Sprig--Oh lovely Sprig!
By thoughts are all of you
I saw a robid yesterday--
How strange it seebs--ad dew!
I've got a dreadful cold, Fair Sprig,
Or else I'd sig to thee
Ad air frob Beddelssohd, perhaps,
Or "The Shade of the Old Apple Tree."