Classic Poem

My lady is haughty and grand,
She's a vision of beauty and art;
But I fear that her dainty white hand
Is softer by far than her heart.
Shall I come as a suppliant near her,
To be crushed when my love I confess?
Ah, no; there's a fairer and dearer —
A girl in a calico dress.

My lady has money and style,
She has dresses and gems by the score,
And lovers to strive for her smile,
Besides men and maid servants galore;
But my heart sings as loud as a linnet,
And all envy I quickly repress,
When I hold in my arms just a minute
That girl in the calico dress.

My lady is traveled and wise,
She reigns at reception and ball,
She kills, if need be, with her eyes,
But she blushes, I fear, not at all.
She's a peony, proudly aspiring,
With no fragrance a lover to bless;
But a mignonette, sweet and retiring,
Is my girl in the calico dress.

My lady may freeze when I bow,
Or as bright as a houri may beam;
I watch not her moods, for I vow
That her charms very poor to me seem,
For there's never a maid in all story
So worthy a prince's caress,
And nothing so fair out of glory
As my girl in the calico dress!