|
She's like the swallow that flies on high |
|
She's like the river that never runs dry |
|
She's like the sun beaming on the lea shore |
|
I love my love, but love is no more |
|
A maiden into her garden did go |
|
For to pluck her some wild primrose |
|
The more she plucked, the more she did pull |
|
Until this maiden's apron was full |
|
Then out of these roses she made a bed |
|
A scarlet pillow for her head |
|
She laid her down, no words she did speak |
|
And then this maiden's heart, it did break |
|
She's like the swallow that flies on high |
|
She's like the river that never runs dry |
|
She's like the sun beaming on the lea shore |
|
I love my love, but love is no more |