THE dearest accents ever heard
Are thine my canny Sally—nay,
Thou art to me the sweetest bird
That ever charmed the hours away.

I listen to each syllable
Doth from thy lips of scarlet flow
And how I feel I cannot tell—
But fain would feel forever so.

The stalest jest, the tritest tale,
The rudest air, the longest song,
From thee were neither trite nor stale,
From thee were neither rude nor long.

Thy music puts me in a trance,
When I'm to heaviness inclined;
And maketh me in glee to dance,
When I've no dancing in my mind.

The well-played lute, panpipe, or flute,
May—must the tender heart enchant;
But neither flute, panpipe, or lute
Had ever thy sweet tongue to vaunt.