As we ate the cherries rare
Cried aloud my maiden true,
"Sweetmeats would be better far!
Wearisome is thy St. Cloud!

"We're thirsty, but instead of drink
We've only cherries; just look here,
How fine! My mouth is black as ink,
And all my fingers blue! Oh, dear!"

An hundred other things she said
And struck me with her dainty hand.
Oh, month of June! Oh, roses red!
The blue sky sings, while rests the land.

I let her chide, and lovingly,
That nothing she might take amiss,
I pressed the hand that punished me,
And gave those crimson lips a kiss!

From Les Chansons Des Rues Et Des Bois