The little old Cupid

'Twas a very small garden;

The paths were of stone,

Scattered with leaves,

With moss overgrown;

And a little old Cupid

Stood under a tree,

With a small broken bow

He stood aiming at me.

The dog-rose in briars

Hung over the weeds,

The air was aflock

With the floating of seed,

And a little old Cupid

Stood under a tree,

With a small broken bow

He stood aiming at me.

The dovecote was tumbling,

The fountain dry,

A wind in the orchard

Went whispering by;

And a little old Cupid

Stood under a tree,

With a small broken bow

He stood aiming at me.