In the doorway of her cottage
She was framed a cailin shy:
Embodying all the beauty
Of the earth and of the sky.
‘Twas a simple little cottage;
‘Twas a quiet scene and quaint;
Which a bard would love to sing of,
And an artist love to paint.
Though she was not quite in fashion,
With her long and wavy hair,
And that feminine appearance
Which our fathers thought so fair.
Though her home was poor and humble;
And her hands were rough with toil;
There was grace in face and figure,
And the sun shone in her smile.
As the snows among the beeches
Were her skin and wavy curls;
And her teeth and lips and blushes
Were as rubies, and as pearls.
Just a cailin in a doorway
Of her quiet cot, and quaint; –
Where’s the poet who could sing her?
Where’s the artist who could paint?