I AM never in doubt of her goodness, I am always afraid of her mood, I am never quite sure of her temper, For wilfulness runs in her blood. She is sweet with the sweetness of spring-time— A tear and a smile in an hour— Yet I ask not release from her slightest caprice, My love with the face of a flower. My love with the grace of the lily That sways on its slender fair stem, My love with the bloom of the rosebud, White pearls in my life's diadem! You may call her coquette if it please you, Enchanting, if shy or if bold, Is my darling, my winsome wee lassie, Whose birthdays are three, when all told. |