I envy not the splendour fine
That glitters in Sir Watkyn's hall;
I ask not for the gems that shine
Om lady fair at Wintley ball:
I wish but for a ribbon gay,
Which I might on a Sunday wear;
Unseen which I might kiss, and say,
'Twas Owen's gift from Wrexham fair.

O Owen, I believe thee kind,
And love is surely on thy tongue ...
But would that I could read thy mind,
For hope betrays the maiden young.
Last night I saw thee loth to part,
I watch'd thy looks - so bright the moon -
And know not but my simple heart
Might own too much, or own too soon.

Unhappy fate, oh doubtful maid!
Her tears may fall, her bosom swell.
But even to the desert shade
She never must her secret tell.
And is it Love, - his softer mien?
And is it Love, - his whisper low?
And does he much, or nothing mean?
Ah! She that loves, how can she know!

With Owen I the dance have led,
And then I thought that sure he seem'd
To dance with lighter, livelier tread ...
Oh! Was it so, - or have I dream'd?
Today he goes with merry glee,
And all are going to the fair ...
O may I by some ribbon see
He thought of one that was not there.