As I walked forth one summer's day,
To view the meadows green and gay
A pleasant bower I espied
Standing fast by the river side,
And in't a maiden I heard cry:
Alas! alas! there's none e'er loved as I.

Then round the meadow did she walk,
Catching each flower by the stalk
Such flow'rs as in the meadow grew,
The Dead Man's Thumb, an herb all blue;
And as she pull'd them still cried she:
Alas! alas! there's none e'er loved as I.

The flowers of the sweetest scents
She bound about with knotty bents;
And as she bound them up in bands
She wept, she sigh'd, she wrung her hands;
Alas! alas! alas! cried she,
Alas! alas! there's none e'er loved as I.

When she had fill'd her apron full
Of such green things as she could cull,
The green things served her for her bed,
The flow'rs were the pillows for her head;
Then down she laid her, ne'er more did speak;
Alas! alas! with love her heart did break.

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