The Unfortunate Damsel

I sowed the seeds of love
To blossom all the spring.
In April, May, or else June,
When the small birds do sing:
A gardener standing by,
I desired him to choose for me;
Hi picked out the lily, the violet, and the pink,
But I refused all three.
The lily I refused,
Because it faded too soon;
The violet and pink I overlooked,
Resolved was to tarry till June:
In June the red roses bud,
Oh, that is a lover for me;
But I have often aimed at the red rose-bud,
And I have gained the willow tree.
The gardner standing by,
He prayed me to have a care,
For the thorn that grew on the red rose-bush,
A venemous thorn they were:
A venemous thorn indeed,
For still I feel the smart;
And every time I did it touch,
It pricked my tender heart.
Away you fading flowers,
No more I will you touch,
That all the world may plainly see
I loved one flower too much.

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