Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem,
The pride of all the flow’ry scene,
Just opening on its thorny stem;
An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.
IX.
Her teeth are like the nightly snow
When pale the morning rises keen,
While hid the murmuring streamlets flow;
An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een
X.
Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,
That sunny walls from Boreas screen—
They tempt the taste and charm the sight;
An’ she has twa, sparkling roguish een.
XI.
Her teeth are like a flock of sheep,
With fleeces newly washen clean,
That slowly mount the rising steep;
An’ she has twa glancin’ roguish een.
XII.
Her breath is like the fragrant breeze
That gently stirs the blossom’d bean,
When Phœbus sinks behind the seas;
An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.