Not in a rosy bower,
Not in a garden gay,
Nor by a watchman’s tower,
I saw the primrose play;

But by a meadow green—
A meadow sweet and fair,
In beauty it was seen;
I saw the primrose there.

It sported with the breeze,
It courted with the sun,
And tried so hard to please
With all its puny fun.

It flirted with the moon,
And kissed the early dew;
They left it both ere noon;
These lovers were not true.

A little murmuring brook
Came wandering by the way;
It came to have a look,
And with the flower to play.

It gave it drink so sweet,
And sang a pretty song;
The brook seemed to entreat
To be the lover long.

A sturdy old oak tree
Bent o’er it night and day,
Its guardian feigned to be,
And shelter it alway.

In time some courtiers took
Their turn to have a woo.
I came to take a look,
And was a lover too.

I took the pretty flower,
And set it in my breast,
Rejoicing in that hour,
But sorrowing left the rest.