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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!