THIS grey-haired spinster, Catharine Plouffe
Observe her, a contrast to convent chits,
At her spinning wheel, in the room in the roof.
Yet there are those who believe that the hoof
Of a horse is nightly heard as she knits
This grey-haired spinster, Catharine Plouffe
Stockings of fabulous warp and woof,
And that old Benedict's black pipe she permits
At her spinning wheel, in the room in the roof,
For thirty years. So the gossip. A proof
Of her constant heart? Nay. No one twits
This grey-haired spinster, Catharine Plouffe;
The neighbours respect her, but hold aloof,
Admiring her back as she steadily sits
At her spinning wheel, in her room in the roof.
Will they ever marry? Just ask her. Pouf!
She would like you to know she's not lost her wits
This grey-haired spinster, Catharine Plouffe,
At her spinning wheel, in her room in the roof.
