Roses, ah, how fair ye be!
⁠Ye are fading, dying!
Ye should with my lady be,
⁠On her bosom lying;
All your bloom is lost on me,
⁠Here despairing, sighing.

Oh, the golden dreams I nursed,
⁠Ere I knew thy scorning,
When I poured my passion first,
⁠And at break of morning,
Plucked the rosebuds ere they burst
⁠For thy breast's adorning!

Every fruit and floweret rare,
⁠To thy feet I bore it.
Fondly knelt, to see thee there
⁠Bending fondly o'er it.
Gazing on thy face so fair,
⁠To revere, adore it.

​Roses, ah.! how fair ye be!
⁠Ye are fading, dying!
Ye should with my lady be,
⁠On her bosom lying;
All your bloom is lost on me,
⁠Here despairing, sighing.