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Henry Clay Work

Beautiful Rose

Off on the prairie, where the balmy air
Kisses the waving corn,
There lives a farmer, with a daughter fair—
Fair as a summer’s morn!
She has a nature gentle as a dove,
Pure as the mountain snows;
Say! is it strange that everyone should love—
Love such a girl as Rose?
 
Beautiful Rose! lovely Rose!
Pride of the prairie bower!
Everybody loves her—everybody knows
She is the fairest flower.
 
Rose is a lady yet from early dawn,
Labors her skillful hand;
She is the housewife, now her mother’s gone—
Gone to the better land.
Rose has the beauty—father has the gold—
Both will be hers one day;
For she is young, while he is growing old—
Old people pass away.
 
Clerks from the city, plowmen from the field,
Lords from a foreign land;
Each in their turn have very humbly kneeled—
Kneeled for her heart and hand.
But to them all she made the same reply—
Kindly but firmly, “No!”
And none but I can tell the reason why—
Why she should treat them so.

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