Of all the winsome damsels, that my eyes have ever seen,
There is one, for whom my breast heaves constant sighs:
She is a handsome lady, she is to me a queen;
And I of Cupid---begged his noose to catch the prize.
To me she is so comely, the fairest maid around,
Yes---her voice is like the curlews of the spring;
Her ebon locks are curly, her cheeks are olive brown,
And her songs of music charm me when she sings.
The smiles that ever lingers, upon her winsome face,
Reflects like glit'ring rain-bow tints around;
My heart oft leaps with gladness, when through that smile I trace,
A love concealed, by hidden blushes bound.
Her laugh, I can't describe it, 'tis far beyond compare;
But it sounds like rippling waters I have heard;
Or the flow of some sweet cadence, on the tranquil even air;
Mingled with the gentle warble of a bird.
Although there're many a damsel, I find them all amiss;
Compared with her my lady love, Irene;
There is none whose smile possess me, with that sweet angelic bliss:
There is none, for she's my chosen queen.
-Aaron Belford Thompson, 1899