A Leading Question

A littlc mole íb growing, John, Just nrderneath my chin; It gives me so roach grief, dear Johu, I'm growing palé and thin. Another one is coming, John, Just here beneath my ear, And I will be disfigured, John, For life, I sadly fear. And so I want to ask you, John, Will e'er your love grow cold? O, answer me at once, dear John, Will you love me when I'm moled?