“i love thee, fanny willoughby,

and that’s the why, ye see,

i woo thee, fanny willoughby,

and cannot let thee be,—

i sing for thee, i sigh for thee,

and o! you may depend on’t,

i’ll weep for thee, i’ll die for thee,

and that will be the end on’t.

“i love thy form so tall and straight,

to me it always seems,

as if it were the counterfeit

of some i’ve seen in dreams,—

it makes me feel as if i had

an angel by my side,

and then i think i am so bad,

you will not be my bride.

“i love thy clear and hazel eye—

they say the blue is fairer,

and i confess that formerly

i thought the blue the rarer,—

but when i saw thine eye so clear,

though perfectly at rest,

i did kneel down, and i did swear

the hazel was the best.

“i love thy hand so pale and soft,

the which, in days lang syne,

ye innocent as trusting, oft

would softly clasp in mine;

i thought it sure was chiseled out

of marble by the geniuses,

the which the poets rant about,

the virgins and the venuses.

“i love the sounds that from thy lip

gush holily and free,

as rills that from their caverns slip,

and prattle to the sea;

the melody for aye doth steal

to hearts by sorrow riven,

and then i think, and then i feel

that music comes from heaven.

“now listen, fanny willoughby,

to what i cannot keep,

my days ye rob of happiness,

my nights ye rob of sleep;

and if ye don’t relent, why i

believe you will me kill;

for passion must have vent, and i

will kill myself i will.”

’twas thus, when love had made me mad

for fanny willoughby,

i told my tale, half gay, half sad,

to fanny willoughby;

and fanny look’d as maiden would

when love her heart did burn,

and fanny sigh’d as maiden should,

and murmur’d a return.

and so i woo’d fan willoughby—

a maiden like a dove,

and so i won fan willoughby—

the maiden of my love;

and though sad years have pass’d since that,

and she is in the sky,

i never, never can forget

sweet fanny willoughby.