Annie

COAL black are the tresses of Fanny, But never a mortal could see The coal-coloured tresses of Annie, And be as a body should be. White, white, is her forehead, and bonnie— And when she goes down to the well, The beat of the footstep of Annie, The wrath of a tiger would quell. Red, red, are her round cheeks and bonnie— And when she is knitting, her tone— The charm of the accents of Annie, Would ravish the heart of a stone. Nay, rare are her graces and many, But whatever nothing can be Compared to the sweet glance of Annie,— The glance she has given to me.