Tho' my destiny be Fustian1 --
Hers be damask fine --
Tho' she wear a silver apron2 --
I, a less pine --
Still, my little Gypsy being
I would far prefer,
Still, my little sunburnt bosom
To her Rosier,
For, when Frosts, their punctual fingers
On her forehead lay,
You and I, and Dr. Holland,
Bloom Eternally!
Roses of a steadfast3 summer
In a steadfast land,
Where no Autumn lifts her pencil --
And no Reapers4 stand!
Hers be damask fine --
Tho' she wear a silver apron2 --
I, a less pine --
Still, my little Gypsy being
I would far prefer,
Still, my little sunburnt bosom
To her Rosier,
For, when Frosts, their punctual fingers
On her forehead lay,
You and I, and Dr. Holland,
Bloom Eternally!
Roses of a steadfast3 summer
In a steadfast land,
Where no Autumn lifts her pencil --
And no Reapers4 stand!