You smile, dear girl, and look into my face
As if you’d read my history in my eye.
I’m not, sweet maid, a footman out of place,
For that position would, I own, be shy.
What am I then, you ask? Alas! ’tis clear,
You love not me, but what I have a year.
What am I, Mary! Well, then, must I tell,
And all my stern realities reveal?
Come close then to me, dearest, listen well,
While what I am no longer I conceal.