Tho' my destiny be Fustian

Tho’ my destiny be Fustian
Hers be damask fine
Tho’ she wear a silver apron
I, a less divine

Still, my little Gypsy being
I would far prefer,
Still, my little sunburnt bosom
To her Rosier,

For, when Frosts, their punctual fingers
On her forehead lay,
You and I, and Dr. Holland,
Bloom Eternally!

Roses of a steadfast summer
In a steadfast land,
Where no Autumn lifts her pencil
And no Reapers stand!

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Tho' my destiny be Fustian