 | The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves |  |
85
IF I WERE KING OF IRELAND
My love's a match in beauty
For every flower that blows,
Her little ear's a lily,
Her velvet cheek a rose;
Her locks like gillygowans
Hang golden to her knee.
If I were king of Ireland,
My Queen she'd surely be.
For every flower that blows,
Her little ear's a lily,
Her velvet cheek a rose;
Her locks like gillygowans
Hang golden to her knee.
If I were king of Ireland,
My Queen she'd surely be.
Her eyes 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.
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.
| The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves | |