A song to the maid of the minuet,
With a blush as of autumn fruit,
Whose wheel was rife with such magic strains
As the strings of a lover’s lute;
Who caught with her shuttle the firelight glim,
As she worked at her cloth of gold,
And took up her task at the early dawn
With the skillet and candle mould.
A song to the dame with her green calash,
Her curls and her pensive grace,