For when the red rose saw you, dear,
So lovely and so meek,
'T would pale before the richer glow
That lingers on your cheek.
And yet, my sweetest Mabel,
I cannot send to you
The rose which blooms in purest white,
The rose of lily hue.
For when the white rose saw you, love,
It surely would, I trow,
Blush bright with lovely crimson,
Ashamed before your brow.
And so, my lovely Mabel,
You see me puzzled quite;
I cannot send the crimson rose,
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