<poem>I KNOW a lassie,

   And she's a dear, 

I write and visit her

 Now and then, yet fear
   I ne'er shall speak my love.

Tell me her excellencies

 Did you say? 

No pen that ever wrote

 Can her portray,
   Or half her worth disclose.

She is sweet and true and real,

 And good and wise; 

All beauty known,

 Or that you may surmise, 
   Is realized in her. 

Just what she is,

 You see I cannot tell; ​<poem>Nor what she's like,
 Tho' that might serve as well, 
   If it I dared attempt. 

Perhaps if I could here

 The muse indite, 

What might be like her

 I could partly write,
   And of her give a glimpse.

Did not bleak winter's

 Storms and clouds obscure

At times his glorious

 Face and pure, 
   The sun might be like her.

Did spring remain forever

 Fresh and young, 

Replete with daisies

 To be walked among,—
   Then spring would be like her.

Could summer always keep

 Her rich renown, 

And ne'er succumb to

 Autumn's frost and frown,— 
   Then summer were like her. ​<poem>Did azure skies, calm fields,
 And woods of gold, 

That fall reveals, their

 Course continuous hold,— 
   Then autumn were like her. 

Did roses bloom beyond

 The reach of blight; 

Song birds remain unchanged

 By migrant flight,—
   With these she might compare.

Did not deep winter snow,

 So white and clear, 

Make haste in muddy

 Thaws to disappear,—
   Snow somewhat were like her.

Better than all that nature

 Yet hath shown, 

Or art, she stands secure,

 Supreme alone,—
   Of whom to you I write.