O! if I were a mountain streamlet,
I know where I would flow;
I’d spring into the crystal Sava,
Where the gay vessels go,
That I might look upon my lover—
For fain my heart would know
If, when he holds the helm, he ever
Looks on my rose, and thinks
Of her who gave it;—if the nosegay
I made of sweetest pinks
Is faded yet, and if he wear it.
On Saturday I cull
To give him for a Sabbath present
All that is beautiful.