Tho' my destiny be Fustian

163 Tho' my destiny be Fustian— Hers be damask fine— Tho' she wear a silver apron— I, a less divine— Still, my little Gypsy being I would far prefer, Still, my little sunburnt bosom To her Rosier, For, when Frosts, their punctual fingers On her forehead lay, You and I, and Dr. Holland, Bloom Eternally! Roses of a steadfast summer In a steadfast land, Where no Autumn lifts her pencil— And no Reapers stand!