Cruel Anna Poem by Joseph Skipsey

LITTLE Anna, cruel elf,
Spite of all my reason,
She yet puts me from myself
In and out of season;
Ah, the may, ah, the fay,
Glee to mischief wedded!
Foe to rest, she's a pest,
And always to be dreaded!

Chorus—Ah, the may, ah, the fay―
Glee to mischief wedded!
Foe to rest, she's a pest―
And always to be dreaded!

Never goes the sun around,
But upon me stealing,
She, she doth my soul confound,
Sends my reason reeling;
Gars me sing, and while, alack,
I in glee am singing,
On me turns and in a crack,
Gives my ear a-wringing.

Chorus—Ah, the may, etc.

Pat she comes and goes, the wasp!
Back anon she hummeth;
Round my neck her hands to clasp,
That to do she cometh;
So she leads me to suppose
By her air entrancing,
Till I'm twitted by the nose
And again sent dancing.

Chorus—Ah, the may, etc.

Ear or nose, or wrung or stung,
'Tween a thumb and finger,
How to be avenged now long
Lost in doubt I linger;
Then when I resolved at last
Rush her pride to humble;
Lo, o'er me a glamour cast,
O'er the stools I tumble,

Chorus—Ah, the may, etc.

Head-a-turned, heart-a-burned,
Nay reduced to cinders;
Nose-a-stung, ears-a-wrung,
Shins all sent to flinders;
Pale and thin, bone and skin—
I'm a spectre merely;
And he who'd play my part might say
He'd bought his whistle dearly.

Chorus—Ah, the may, etc.