The stolen heart

I was a maiden fair and fond,

Smiling, singing all the day,

Till Maguire with looks of fire

He stole my heart away.

The gardener's son, as he stood by,

Blossoms four did give to me:

The pink, the rue, the violet blue,

And the red, red rosy tree.

Lass, for your lips the sweet clove pink,

For your eyes the violets blue;

The rose to speak your damask cheek,

For memory the rue.

Oh, but my love at first was fond,

Now, alas, he's turned untrue,

My rose and pink and violet shrink,

But tears keep fresh the rue.