The Albany Register

YE SERENADE.
Ye maiden looked down from her lattice
On ye howlers down below.
As they stood turning their voices
At midnight, in a row.
In a row beneath her lattice,
With ye tenor at ye head-"
A pallid youth who ought to have
Been put in his little bed!"
And now ye viols sounded,
And ye flute on ye midnight's air;
And dismal noises went wailing out
From him of ye swarthy hair.
He called her his sun, his light, his star,
And likened her to ye moon;
And ye viols and flute and light guitar
Took up and echoed ye tune.
And ye longer he sung ye louder
His voice was pitched and higher;
He clasped his hands where his heart should be,
And in verse, swore his heart was on fire!
Then ye maiden smiled a pensive smile,
And went to her little stand,
And appeared in white at ye lattice
With a pitcher in each hand.
Then ye howlers grew more frantic!
And fiercer ye music grew!
But onto their heads cold water
She very deftly threw.
Ye fire was quenched and ye tumult
Was over and all was still,
And naught was seen of ye howlers
But their coat-tails over ye hill!