With glass like a bull's-eye,
And shutters of green,
Down on the cobbles
Lives Mrs. MacQueen,
At six she rises;
At nine you see
Her candle shine out
In the linden tree:
And at half-past nine
Not a sound is nigh
But the bright moon's creeping
Across the sky;
Or a far dog baying;
Or a twittering bird
In its drowsy nest,
In the darkness stirred;
Or like the roar
Of a distant sea
A long-drawn S-s-sh
In the linden tree.