Why is my silly girl so vain,
Looking in the glass again?
For the meekest flower of spring
Is a gayer little thing.
Is your merry eye so blue
As the violet, wet with dew?
Yet it loves the best to hide
By the hedge's shady side.
Is your bosom half so fair
As the modest lilies are?
Yet their little bells are hung
Bright and shady leaves among.
When your cheek the brightest glows,
Is it redder than the rose?
But its sweetest buds are seen
Almost hid with moss and green.
Little flowers that open gay,
Peeping forth at break of day,
In the garden, hedge, or plain,
Have more reason to be vain.