The girl I love is comely, straight, and tall;
Down her white neck her auburn tresses fall;
Her dress is neat, her carriage light and free—
Here's a health to that charming maid, whoe'er she be!
The rose's blush but fades beside her cheek;
Her eyes are blue, her forehead pale and meek;
Her lips, like cherries on a summer tree—
Here's a health to the charming maid, whoe'er she be!
When I go to the field no youth can lighter bound,
And I freely pay when the cheerful jug goes round;
The barrel is full; but its heart we soon shall see—
Come! here's to that charming maid, whoe'er she be!
Had I the wealth that props the Saxon's reign,
Or the diamond crown that decks the King of Spain,
I'd yield them all if she kindly smiled on me—
Here's a health to the maid I love, whoe'er she be!
Five pounds of gold for each lock of her hair I'd pay,
And five times five, for my love one hour each day,
Her voice is more sweet than the thrush on its own green tree—
Then, my dear, may I drink a fond, deep health to thee!