I'll twine a wreath

I'll twine a wreath, I'll twine a wreath,

A garland for thy head—

The green, green leaves that fancy weaves

Shall balmy fragrance shed;

The blooming flowers from sylvan bowers

Shall show a thousand dyes

Around thy brow, like coloured bow

That girds the summer skies.

The heather-bell, from cliff and fell,

I'll seek where zephyr blows;

At early morn, from off the thorn,

I'll cull the new-blown rose;

And lily pale, from verdant vale,

That bends beneath the storm,

Emblem of you, all bathed in dew,

And spotless as thy form.

These, wreathed and bound, shall circle round,

Thy lovely brow of white,

Where glossy hair in tresses fair,

Like clouds of summer night,

Thine eyes o'ershade,—oh, lovely maid!

These eyes that oft beguile

And charm my heart with magic art—

So sweet thy dimpling smile.

This garland gay will soon decay

And lose its lovely hue;

But soul and heart shall rather part

Before I part from you.

This wreath will fade, ah, lovely maid!

With leaves and blossoms wove;

But age or care can ne'er impair

My heart's unchanging love.