THE rose it sweetly bloometh,
⁠But whose then shall it be?
Ah! long long time I watch’d it,
⁠Alas! unhappy me!

As long as undevelop’d,
⁠And in the bud it grows,
There’s no one looks upon it,
⁠Nor marks the coming rose.

O carefully I watch’d it,
⁠Like pearls that precious be;
O then it was a promise
⁠Of future bliss to me!

But soon as from the green leaves
⁠An issue forth it found,
It was the admiration
⁠Of all the lads around!