Mrs. MacQueen

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.
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