To the Queen's health

I drink, I dare not say to whom,

A Queen -- not England's Queen, but mine!

I drink to one whose pure young lips

Are richer than the wine.

Unto her hazel eyes I drink,

And to her nut-brown hair,

And to the cheeks that wear

The sea-shell's faintest pink!

I would that I might breathe her name,

My simple song would grow divine,

Even as these molten rubies turn

(When spilt for her,) to holy wine!