My mother bids me bind my hair
⁠With bands of rosy hue,
Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare,
⁠And lace my boddice blue.
For why, she cries, sit still and weep,
⁠While others dance and play?
Alas! I scarce can go or creep,
⁠While Lubin is away.

’Tis sad to think the days are gone,
⁠When those we love are near;
I sit upon this mossy stone,
⁠And sigh when none can hear.
And while I spin my flaxen thread,
⁠Or sing my simple lay,
The village seems asleep or dead,
⁠Since Lubin is away.