The pea is but a wanton witch,
    In too much haste to wed,
And clasps her rings on every hand;
    The wolfsbane I should dread;
Nor will I dreary rosemarye,
    That always mourns the dead;
But I will woo the dainty rose,
    With her cheeks of tender red.

The lily is all in white, like a saint,
    And so is no mate for me;
And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush
    She is of such low degree;
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,
    And the broom's betrothed to the bee;--
But I will plight with the dainty rose,
    For fairest of all is she.