Pat Boone
Pat Boone
Pat Boone
Pat Boone
Pat Boone
Pat Boone
Pat Boone
Pat Boone
Pat Boone
Pat Boone
Pat Boone
Pat Boone
Pat Boone
Pat Boone
Pat Boone
Pat Boone
Pat Boone
Pat Boone
Thee I love, more than the meadow so green and still
More than the mulberries on the hill
More than the buds of a May apple tree, I love thee
Arms have I, strong as the oak, for this occasion
Lips have I, to kiss thee, too, in friendly persuasion
Thee is mine, though I don't know many words of praise
Thee pleasures me in a hundred ways
Put on your bonnet, your cape, and your glove
And come with me, for thee I love
Friendly persuasion
Thee is mine, though I don't know many words of praise
Thee pleasures me in a hundred ways
Put on your bonnet, your cape, and your glove
And come with me, for thee I love