Oh luckless maid! Oh cruel fate
Would I might run away
And shun ere it may be too late
A subtle, dark, mysterious mate
Not made of mortal clay.
Some call him Monarch of the Mine
Who claims this plighted hand
That every thing superb and fine
For which many ladies pine
Are all at his command
But what to me are rubies rare,
Or sparkling diamond comb
Or topaz crescent for my hair
When not a soul will ere be there
But that detested gnome!
For never any well drest belle
To ask could I presume
No lower to my humid cell
Just like a bucket in a well
And spoil her gay costume!
Oh! if the thief some sylph had been
Tho’ ne’er so gay and light
And proffer’d me to his Queen
His golden wings, his sportive mien
Had won his heart outright!