I'd rather be a village maid
And owe to nature all my bloom,
Than turn to fashion's glass for aid
And flaunt beneath her borrow'd plume;

To highborn dames I leave the gem,
They grace the splendour it bestows,
But Oh! what fate ordained for them
Would ill become a simple rose.

Oh! not for me her lover's vow
That lures me to a prouder sphere,
I have no heart for loving now,
Unless my own first love were here.

I see his smile, I hear his voice,
Though years of absence interpose
And I can make no second choice,
For I am but a simple rose.