Once from a big, big building,

When I was small, small,

The queer folk in the windows

Would smile at me and call.

And in the hard wee gardens

Such pleasant men would hoe:

“Sir, may we touch the little girl’s hair!”—

It was so red, you know.

They cut me coloured asters

With shears so sharp and neat,

They brought me grapes and plums and pears

And pretty cakes to eat.

And out of all the windows,

No matter where we went,

The merriest eyes would follow me

And make me compliment.

There were a thousand windows,

All latticed up and down.

And up to all the windows,

When we went back to town,

The queer folk put their faces,

As gentle as could be;

“Come again, little girl!” they called, and I

Called back, “You come see me!”