The Bough
The Bough
My pretty lady, how art thou?
My eyes are glued to thy picture now
And I can't help but wonder how
Thy lips I'll kiss someday, if thou would allow.
Many a king, at your beauty would bow
Offer themselves, your fields to plough
Buy thee loads of diamonds, ferried on a scow
And build thee a palace, by a peaceful lough
Not a noble; I work hard, till sweat falls off my brow
Yet,thoughts of thee are always in my heart somehow
And I wonder if my lady can truly avow
That, though there be nobles on thy tree of friends, I will be the bough
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