Is there anything new to sing about you,
May, my dear?
Any unhackneyed thing about you,
Pray, my dear?
Anything that has not been sung
Long ago, when the world was young,
By silver throat and golden tongue?
Say, my dear!

So many have said that your eyes are blue,
May, my dear;
It must be a tiresome fact, though true,
May, my dear.
And if I, for one, my gracious Queen,
Should boldly assert that your eyes are green,
'Twould be a relief to you, I ween.
Eh, my dear?

We know, at the touch of your garment's fold,
May, my dear,
The daisies come starring with white and gold
The way, my dear;
We know that the painted blossoms all
Come starting up at your gentle call,
By dale and meadow and garden wall,
May, my dear.

We know that your birds have the sweetest tune,
May, my dear;
And lovers love best beneath your moon,
They say, my dear.
And I might add that your perfumed kiss
Is considered productive of highest bliss;
But you must be so tired of hearing this.
Eh, my dear?

No, I really don't think there's anything fresh
Or new, my dear;
For life is short, and available rhymes
Are few, my dear.
So if I say nought about vernal bowers,
And forbear to mention the sunlit showers,
I think I shall make the best use of my powers.
Don't you, my dear?

And yet—yet I cannot help loving you so,
May, my dear,
That the old words, whether I will or no,
I say, my dear.
And how you are fair, and how you are sweet,
My loving lips forever repeat,—
And is this the reason you pass so fleet?
Ah, stay, my dear!