Now upon the trellis sitting, Now along the fencetop flitting, Meekly modest in my attitudes and poses; ’Neath my breast incarnadine Can this midget heart of mine Hold one half the vanity my song discloses? First a nervous little flutter, Now a chirp and now a stutter, Then I lift my snow-flecked crown to the refrain Of my plaintive little ditty: “Oh, the pity! What a pity! Oh, and isn’t it a pity my poor Jenny is so plain!” See, my burning front of flame Puts the crimson rose to shame; And my singing leads the chorus of the morning; But my silent little mate, Mute upon the garden gate, Sober Jenny, hasn’t any such adorning. Tho’ I’m handsomer than others, Do not think I boast, my brothers; I’m the meekest little chorister a-wing. Still, I’m tuneful, wise and witty, Can you doubt, who hears my ditty? “Ah, but isn’t it a pity that my Jenny cannot sing!”