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? . . .