My Love's a match in beauty
For every flower that blows,
Her little ear's a lilly,
Her velvet cheek a rose;
Her locks are gilly gowans
Hang golden to her knee.
If I were King of Ireland,
My Queen she'd surely be.

Her eyes are fond forget-me-nots,
And no such snow is seen
Upon the heaving hawthorn bush
As crests her bodice green.
The thrushes when she's talking
Sit listening on the tree.
If I were King of Ireland,
My Queen she'd surely be.

Alfred P. Graves