He used to pass, well-trimmed and brushed,
       &nbsp My window every day,
And when I smiled on him he blushed,
That youth, quite as a girl might; aye,
       &nbsp In the shyest way.

Thus often did he pass hereby,
       &nbsp That youth of bounding gait,
Until the one who blushed was I,
And he became, as here I sate,
       &nbsp My joy, my fate.

And now he passes by no more,
       &nbsp That youth I loved too true!
I grieve should he, as here of yore,
Pass elsewhere, seated in his view,
       &nbsp Some maiden new!

If such should be, alas for her!
       &nbsp He’ll make her feel him dear,
Become her daily comforter,
Then tire him of her beauteous gear,
       &nbsp And disappear!