My own blue bell, my pretty blue bell,
I never will rove where roses dwell;
My wings you view of your own bright hue,
And, oh! never doubt that my heart's true blue.
Thought oft, I own, I've foolishly flown,
To peep at each bud that was nearly blown,
I now have done with folly and fun,
For there's nothing like constancy under the sun.
⁠My own blue bell, &c.

Some Belles are blues, invoking the Muse
And talking of vast intellectual views:
Their crow-quills' tip in the ink they dip,
And they prate with the lore of learned lip.
Blue Bellow like them, may be wise they please,
But I love my blue bell that bends in the breeze;
Pride passes her by, but she charms my eye,
With a tint that resembles the cloudless sky.
⁠My own bell, &c.