Oh! My love is as fair as the blossoms of May,
And sweet as June roses is she.
But what shall I do when the merry dark eyes
Refuse with her lips to agree?
My heart, she well knows, is forever her own,
It slipped from my keeping one day;
And tho' I made haste to demand its return,
The truant refused to obey. She knows I am waiting an honest reply
To the question I asked--long ago.
But, alas! While her eyes shine a positive "Yes, "
Her saucy, red lips answer--"No!"
Now what can be done with a maiden like this?
My heart on the qui vive remains,
First hoping, then longing, then coaxing, and then
Most cruelly teased for my pains! She's "in love with Dame Nature, " she merrily says,
When I press her for sober replies;
But there's somehow a glance that my heart beats to see
When she lifts to my own her bright eyes.
There never was seen so provoking a maid,
Nor one so bewitching indeed:
And I am so truly her captive, that still
I'll follow where'er she may lead. She may "love old Dame Nature, " but I will love best
The maid who is Nature's own child:
First playful, then sober, then grave, and then gay;
Cruel at times, and then mild.
Oh! Which are the truer--the eyes or the lips?
Of the two--which can lover believe?
I'll trust the dear eyes, for red lips are oft false;
But the eyes--they can never deceive!