A young gentleman came riding past,
On a snow blue winters day,
He asked to drink by our fire
And I was pleased to let him stay,
He drank there quietly for a while,
And then he turned and said to me,
Your eyes are green Like summer grass,
Your lips are red Like a fresh cut rose,
Your hair is soft Like an Irish stream,
And your voice Is filled with sweet beauty
And the last words I heard him say Were
I shall return For you My love On Christmas Day
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Showing posts from December, 2002