COAL black are the tresses of Fanny,
But never a mortal could see
The coal-coloured tresses of Annie,
And be as a body should be.

White, white, is her forehead, and bonnie—
And when she goes down to the well,
The beat of the footstep of Annie,
The wrath of a tiger would quell.

Red, red, are her round cheeks and bonnie—
And when she is knitting, her tone—
The charm of the accents of Annie,
Would ravish the heart of a stone.

Nay, rare are her graces and many,
But whatever nothing can be
Compared to the sweet glance of Annie,—
The glance she has given to me.