A STORY OF A, B, C by PATRICK REGINALD CHALMERS

WHEN I'm going to town of a morning,
Every day I meet
Three little girls with grace adorning
The long, grey aisle of a London street
(The Saints be kind to their class-ward feet),
And I don't know what their names may be,
Never a one of all the three,
So we'll call them A and B and C.
And A's as slim as a willow,
And B's as nice as a bun,
And C's as pretty as sixpence,
And how shall the story run?

They go in orchard, apple-green dresses
(Best of Pomona's hues),
They wear the sun in their pig-tailed tresses,
They wear the wind in their walking shoes;
You wouldn't know which of the three to choose.
Each of them fresh as an April day,
Each of them bright as a roundelay,
Each of them, C and B and A.
And A's the grace of a princess,
And B's as sweet as a rose,
And C, she's pretty as sixpence,
And that's how the story goes!

Now that's as far as my knowledge reaches,
Fancy finds the end,
"Sugar and spice" for all and each is
Always there when it's "Let's pretend";
So 'tis settled that Fate's to send
Sugar and spice to all the three
(Letting them know it comes from me),
Each of them, A and B and C.
And A shall marry a marquis,
And B shall marry a squire,
And C (who's pretty as sixpence)
Whomever her dreams desire!

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