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Saw
a youth the morning rose
Blooming in the heather,
As her dainty leaves unclose,
Straight to gaze on her he goes,
‘Twas in summer weather.
Rose, thou pretty rose so red,
Rose among the heather.
Said the
youth: I’ll cull thee now,
Rose among the heather,
Said the rose: my thorn, I vow,
Thou shalt feel, ‘tis sharp enow,
Me thou shat not gather.
Rose, thou pretty rose so red,
Rose among the heather.
But the youth
impatient cull’d
Rose among the heather,
Rose stung sharply as he pull’d,
But her days, alas, were told,
Wounded both together.
Rose, thou pretty rose so red,
Rose among the heather.
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