The shy lover
J. Marx
My lover's shy, almost to sadness!
He loves me; daily this his moan:
My soul's delight art thou, its gladness!
I love but thee, love, thee alone!
And yet he's shy, almost to sadness.
Once mother left us two alone.
What think you that he did, ah no!
He stood there stiff, as carved in stone,
And stared at his hat, said: "I must go!"
Just think! And we were all alone! (O!)