Fond Wife

O! if I were a mountain streamlet, I know where I would flow; I’d spring into the crystal Sava, Where the gay vessels go, That I might look upon my lover— For fain my heart would know If, when he holds the helm, he ever Looks on my rose, and thinks Of her who gave it;—if the nosegay I made of sweetest pinks Is faded yet, and if he wear it. On Saturday I cull To give him for a Sabbath present All that is beautiful.