She is only an innkeeper's daughter -- I know it, I own it with tears,And her eyes are accustomed to slaughter The ranks of the Builth volunteers.
I know , in her sweet conversation The Hs are laboured and rare,But her cheek is unfading carnation, And the sun never sets in her hair.
Can it be that those delicate fingers Beer, 'bacca and sperrits dispense?Can it be that at evening she lingers To talk with some lout at the fence?
Can it be that no distant ideal Has ever illumined her dreams?Can it be that her love for that real Young farmer is all that it seems?
Can it be no poetical fancies Ever dawned in those violet eyes?Can it be that those exquisite glances Are devoted to bonnets and ties?
O were I a knight in a story, And could ride with a pennon and lance,I would will for her napkin such glory As would make her a Queen of Romance.
Lady Margaret and Lady Agneta Are beauties, they say, at the Court; --Were Cophetua living to meet her, I well know what he would have thought,
Aye -- and done. -- But at present her duty I suppose is otherwise placed:With a gift of most wonderful beauty Albeit she truly is graced.
