My Love's A Match

My love's a match in beauty

For every flower that blows,

Her little ear's a lily,

Her velvet cheek a rose;

Her locks are gilly gowans

Hang golden to her knee.

If I were King of Ireland,

My Queen she'd surely be.

Her eyes are fond forget-me-nots,

And no such snow is seen

Upon the heaving hawthorn bush

As crests her bodice green.

The thrushes when she's talking

Sit listening on the tree.

If I were King of Ireland,

My Queen she'd surely be.

by

Alfred P. Graves