UP among the chimneys tall

Lay the garret of Pierrot.

Here came trooping to his call

Fancies no one else might know;

Here he bade the spiders spin

Webs to hide his treasure in.

Here he heard the night wind croon

Slumber-songs for sleepyheads;

Here he spied the spendthrift moon

Strew her silver on the leads;

Here he wove a coronet

Of quaint lyrics for Pierrette.

But the bugles blew him down

To the fields with war beset;

Marched him past the quiet town,

Past the window of Pierrette;

Comrade now of sword and lance,

Pierrot gave his dreams to France.