My gift may suit thee, fairy fair,
Thy dear blue eyes, thy flaxen hair.
In this soft tint sweet violets glow,
In this the early harebells blow;
From their young hours stern Winter flies,
And shines the sun in sapphire skies.
Blue o’er smooth seas the halcyons skim;
Minerva’s eyes in azure swim;
In plain cerulean Luna stands,
When mild she looks on seas and lands.
If sturdy Whigs desire to see
The stubborn nymph, proud Liberty,
The supple Tory looks askew,
And crowns his forehead with true blue.
Hope from the prism this colour chose,
And blue her robe redundant flows.
So, in the tissue of thy fate,
This tint, so gay and fortunate,
All prevalent, dear child, be seen
To chase the pale forsaken green,
The yellow tinge of jealousy,
And every dim and dismal dye!
And may this hue of summer skies,
Of Wisdom’s fair, enlight’ning eyes,
Of vernal harebell’s modest bloom,
Of sea-born halcyon’s little plume,
Of Tory ribands, Luna’s plain,
The vest of Hope, the violet’s stain,
Still prove for thee, as years increase,
Emblem of innocence and peace.