"In the great court of thy small dwelling,

My dear rose, what doest thou?"

"I cook my pullets; my heart I'm telling

My love for his supper will come but now."

"In the great court of thy small dwelling,

My dear rose, what doest thou?"

"I trim my dress; my heart I'm telling

My love will be coming with shining brow,"

"In the great court of thy small dwelling,

My dear rose, what doest thou?"

"I gather flowers; my heart I'm telling

My garlanded hair will attest my vow."

"Cook not your fowls, nor trim your dresses,

Put no flowers in your hair.

My dear rose pale, for your raven tresses

A branch of willow you may find and wear."

The fatal fight is done and over,

Three came back to tell the tale.

On the bloody field there lies thy lover,

And his winding sheet is his broken mail.

"
Oh, cruel bird, I 'll curse your singing,

Fatal voice that tears my breast.

My mother the shroud will soon be bringing,

And in white grave clothes I 'll be drest."