She was just as deaf as ever, poor dear!

At last--one very fine day in June -
Suppose her sitting,
Busily knitting,
And humming she didn't quite know what tune;
For nothing she heard but a sort of whizz,
Which, unless the sound of circulation,
Or of thoughts in the process of fabrication,
By a spinning-jennyish operation,
It's hard to say what buzzing it is.
However, except that ghost of a sound,
She sat in a silence most profound -
The cat was purring about the mat,
But her mistress heard no more of that
Than if it had been a boatswain's cat;
And as for the clock the moments nicking,
The dame only gave it credit for ticking.
The bark of her dog she did not catch;
Nor yet the click of the lifted latch;
Nor yet the creak of the opening door;
Nor yet the fall of a foot on the floor -
But she saw the shadow that crept on her gown
And turned its skirt of a darker brown.

And lo! a man! a Pedlar! ay, marry,
With the little back-shop that such tradesmen carry,
Stocked with brooches, ribbons, and rings,
Spectacles, razors, and other odd things
For lad and lass, as Autolycus sings;