The dewdrop from the rose that drips

Hath not the sparkle of her lips,

My lady's lips.

Than her long braids of yellow hold

The dandelion hath not more gold,

Her braids of gold.

The blue-bell hints not more of skies

Than do the flowers of her eyes,

My lady's eyes.

The sweet-pea bloom shows not more grace

Of delicate pink than doth her face,

My lady's face.

So, heigh-ho! then, though skies be gray,

Spring blossoms in my heart to-day,

This winter day!