With the sun-steeped mist yet rippling free,
For her golden hair! my bliss to be,
For I love Bessie and she loves me!
I see by the glass that Time has tossed
Over my locks his powdery frost;
But whoot, old man, your labor is lost!
For every day you lessen the way
Between me and my delicate fay,
My bonny, bounding Bessie Grey;
Years may whiten what white may be,