If you passed her in your city 
You would call her badly dressed, 
But the faded homespun covers 
Such a heart in such a breast! 
True, her rosy face is freckled 
By the sun's abundant flame, 
But she's mine with all her failings, 
And I love her just the same. 

If her hands are red they grapple 
To my hands with splendid strength, 
For she's mine, all mine's the beauty 
Of her straight and lovely length! 
True, her hose be think and homely 
And her speech is homely, too; 
But she's mine! her rarest charm is 
She's for me, and not for you!