Tho my destiny be Fustian --

Hers be damask fine --

Tho she wear a silver apron --

I, a less divine --

Still, my little Gypsy being

I would far prefer,

Still, my little sunburnt bosom

To her Rosier,

For, when Frosts, their punctual fingers

On her forehead lay,

You and I, and Dr. Holland,

Bloom Eternally!

Roses of a steadfast summer

In a steadfast land,

Where no Autumn lifts her pencil --

And no Reapers stand!