To try a rival blush with you,
But their mother, Nature, kept them sleeping,
With their rosy faces wash’d in dew.
Oh, Molly, &c.
The pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear,
And the pretty stars were made to shine;
The pretty girls were made for the boys, dear,
And may be you were made for mine.
The wicked watch dog here is snarling—
He takes me for a thief, d’ye see?