To the woods, to the woods is the wizard gone; In his grotto the maiden sits alone. She gazes up with a weary smile At the rafter-hanging crocodile, The slowly swinging crocodile. Scorn has she of her master’s gear, Cauldron, alembic, crystal sphere, Phial, philtre – "Fiddlededee For all such trumpery trash!" quo’ she. "A soldier is the lad for me; Hey and hither, my lad! "Oh, here have I ever lain forlorn: My father died ere I was born, Mother was by a wizard wed, And oft I wish I had died instead – Often I wish I were long time dead. But, delving deep in my master’s lore, I have won of magic power such store I can turn a skull – oh, fiddlededee For all this curious craft!" quo’ she. "A soldier is the lad for me; Hey and hither, my lad! "To bring my brave boy unto my arms, What need have I of magic charms – ‘Abracadabra!’ and ‘Prestopuff’? I have but to wish, and that is enough. The charms are vain, one wish is enough. My master pledged my hand to a wizard; Transformed would I be to toad or lizard If e’er he guessed – but fiddlededee For a black-browed sorcerer, now," quo’ she. "Let Cupid smile and the fiend must flee; Hey and hither, my lad."