SHE IS SO PRETTY
SHE is so pretty, the girl I love,
Her eyes are tender and deep and blue
As the summer night in the skies above,
As violets seen through a mist of dew.
How can I hope, then, her heart to gain?
She is so pretty, and I am so plain!
She is so pretty, so fair to see!
Scarcely she’s counted her nineteenth spring,
Fresh, and blooming, and young,—ah me!
Why do I thus her praises sing?
Surely from me ’tis a senseless strain,
She is so pretty, and I am so plain!
She is so pretty, so sweet and dear,
There’s many a lover who loves her well;
I may not hope, I can only fear,
Yet shall I venture my love to tell? . . .
Ah! I have pleaded, and not in vain—
Though she’s so pretty, and I am so plain.
Béranger.