Plant a slip of myrtle green,
Plant a slip, my maiden;
For your wedding it will be,
For a wreath, my maiden.

When she planted it with joy,
To the war he had to go;
And before the myrtle bloomed,
Ah, she was lying low.

When he came back from the war,
Myrtles they were seeking.
From her tree they cut a twig,
For his coffin weeping.