O hazel eyes of witching power,
And lashes sweet that wound my heart;
Still, as in childhood's tender hour,
Witch-hazel lashes make me smart.

O rosy cheeks, which Nature's hand
Hath touched with her divinest grace!
Mine tingle too; one small rattan
In memory's seat still keeps its place.

O tender lips, with roses wreathed,
That part in sweetness and return!
The poet sings of thoughts that breathed;
I've felt, alas! the lines that burn.

O golden fleece of sunny hair,
Which many a Jason fond would touch,
Do not ensnare me, 'twon't be fair,
For I've been braided — yes, too much.

I'll dream no more of foreign strands,
Those switches could a tale unfold —
Perhaps were combed by other hands,
As I was switched in days of old.

And are those roses also naught?
Thy blushes false, like other pelf?
Thy tongue, with silly language fraught,
At last recalls me to myself.


How many flies in sweetness stick,
Youth only by experience learn,
When boys we " lasses " used to lick,
And we were all licked in return.