| My own dear love, he is strong and bold | |
| And he cares not what comes after. | |
| His words ring sweet as a chime of gold, | |
| And his eyes are lit with laughter. | |
| He is jubilant as a flag unfurled— | 5 |
| Oh, a girl, she’d not forget him. | |
| My own dear love, he is all my world,— | |
| And I wish I’d never met him. | |
| | |
| My love, he’s mad, and my love, he’s fleet, | |
| And a wild young wood-thing bore him! | 10 |
| The ways are fair to his roaming feet, | |
| And the skies are sunlit for him. | |
| As sharply sweet to my heart he seems | |
| As the fragrance of acacia. | |
| My own dear love, he is all my dreams,— | 15 |
| And I wish he were in Asia. | |
| | |
| My love runs by like a day in June, | |
| And he makes no friends of sorrows. | |
| He’ll tread his galloping rigadoon | |
| In the pathway of the morrows. | 20 |
| He’ll live his days where the sunbeams start, | |
| Nor could storm or wind uproot him. | |
| My own dear love, he is all my heart,— | |
| And I wish somebody’d shoot him. | |