I 'm poor as a church mouse, certain,

An I live up in a lane ;
But I can 't see what is passing,

'Cause there 's frost on my window pane ;
But I'll tell you what I can see

(I've got it on the brain),
The pictur's fine that old Jack Frost

Paints on my window pane.

There 's ferns, and grass, and buckwheat,

And splendid palm trees tall ;
With here and there a geyser,

And sometimes a waterfall ;
Laburnums, lilies, leaflets,

Waving fields of grain ;
All are sketched in beauty

Upon my window-pane.

In this great peopled city,

There 's paintings rich and rare,
Of things on earth and ocean ;

But these cannot compare
With pictures all would envy,

In my deserted lane
Sketched by a hand unseen by me,

Upon my window pane.