My Love She Wears A Cotton Plaid, A Bonnet Of The Straw; Her Cheeks Are Leaves Of Roses Spread, Her Lips Are Like The Haw. In Truth She Is As Sweet A Maid As True Love Ever Saw. Her Curls Are Ever In My Eyes, As Nets By Cupid Flung; Her Voice Will Oft My Sleep Surprise, More Sweet Then Ballad Sung. O Mary Bateman'S Curling Hair! I Wake, And There Is Nothing There. I Wake, And Fall Asleep Again, The Same Delights In Visions Rise; There'S Nothing Can Appear More Plain Than Those Rose Cheeks And Those Bright Eyes. I Wake Again, And All Alone Sits Darkness On His Ebon Throne. All Silent Runs The Silver Trent, The Cobweb Veils Are All Wet Through, A Silver Bead'S On Every Bent, On Every Leaf A Bleb Of Dew. I Sighed, The Moon It Shone So Clear; Was Mary Bateman Walking Here?