Oh, The Poets May Sing Of Their Lady Irenes, And May Rave In Their Rhymes About Wonderful Queens; But I Throw My Poetical Wings To The Breeze, And Soar In A Song To My Lady Louise. A Sweet Little Maid, Who Is Dearer, I Ween, Than Any Fair Duchess, Or Even A Queen. When Speaking Of Her I Can't Plod In My Prose, For She 'S The Wee Lassie Who Gave Me A Rose. Since Poets, From Seeing A Lady'S Lip Curled, Have Written Fair Verse That Has Sweetened The World; Why, Then, Should Not I Give The Space Of An Hour To Making A Song In Return For A Flower? I Have Found In My Life--It Has Not Been So Long-- There Are Too Few Of Flowers--Too Little Of Song. So Out Of That Blossom, This Lay Of Mine Grows, For The Dear Little Lady Who Gave Me The Rose. I Thank God For Innocence, Dearer Than Art, That Lights On A By-Way Which Leads To The Heart, And Led By An Impulse No Less Than Divine, Walks Into The Temple And Sits At The Shrine. I Would Rather Pluck Daisies That Grow In The Wild, Or Take One Simple Rose From The Hand Of A Child, Then To Breathe The Rich Fragrance Of Flowers That Bide In The Gardens Of Luxury, Passion, And Pride. I Know Not, My Wee One, How Came You To Know Which Way To My Heart Was The Right Way To Go; Unless In Your Purity, Soul-Clean And Clear, God Whispers His Messages Into Your Ear. You Have Now Had My Song, Let Me End With A Prayer That Your Life May Be Always Sweet, Happy, And Fair; That Your Joys May Be Many, And Absent Your Woes, O Dear Little Lady Who Gave Me The Rose!