My Love's a match in beauty
For every flower that blows,
Her little ear's a lilly,
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 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.

She Tells Her Love

She tell her love while half asleep,
In the dark hours,
With half-words whispered low:
As Earth stirs in her winter sleep
And puts out grass and flowers
Despite the snow,
Despite the falling snow.