There's mischief in thine eye, young boy!
Thy lip has a saucy air—
And the winds breathe on thee health and joy,
As they stir thy golden hair.
No sorrow flings its shadow o'er
Thy baby heart and brow!
And never at a palace door
Was prouder imp than thou!
Prythee, don't raise thy little hand,
With such a lordly air!