I'll begin with her hair,—
It is comely and fair,
And the witch hath wrought her tresses
Into many a snare.

Like a rampart of snow,
Her forehead doth show;
And from her arched eyebrows,
I look down below.

And what do I see?
Oh! a bonny wick e'e;
In the language of heaven
It is speaking to me.

Next her nose doth arise;
Dividing her eyes;
'Tis just what a nose should be,
In form and in size.

And the lily so meek
May be found on her cheek;
And the blush of the rosebud,
It hath not to seek.

That posy is sweet,
Its beauty complete,
Where the rose and the lily fair
Together do meet.

I cannot o'erskip
Her bonny red lip,
All hung with melting kisses,
For her true love to sip.

And though it is a sin,
I must worship her chin,
For its little bonny dimple,
Sure a blessing to win.

To finish my dear,
Let me peep at her ear;
Ah! the lock and the gowden ring
Are revelling there.