She bears a basket on her arm,
Athrough the crowded street ;

The sidewalk feels a soft caress
Beneath her busy feet.

Her rosy cheeks are ever warm,
Her eyes are ever bright ;

Her figure, like a willow wand,
Is supple, lithe and light.

A sight of her is welcome as
The blossoms are in March,

And when the Khan is passing by
Her smile is sweetly arch.

What 's in the basket on her arm,
As through the street she goes?

Her mother takes in washing, and
My girl takes home the clothes.

And thus she flits the city through,
This maiden fair and young ;

I write, because to tell the truth,
I dare not trust my tongue.