‘Tis seven o’clock on a summer’s eve,
And the summer’s sun is low,
An empty hammock beneath the trees,
In the sweetly scented evening breeze
Swings listlessly to and fro.
‘Tis eight o’clock and the sun is gone,
And the darkness grows apace,
In a hammock sits a maiden fair,
While seated near her in a chair
Is a youth with handsome face.
The clock strikes nine—but what is this?
In the gloom of the moonless night,
Two figures, which like one appear
Swing in the hammock,—hark and hear;
“Now Jack, who said you might?”