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She's like the swallow that flies on high |
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She's like the river that never runs dry |
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She's like the sun beaming on the lea shore |
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I love my love, but love is no more |
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A maiden into her garden did go |
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For to pluck her some wild primrose |
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The more she plucked, the more she did pull |
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Until this maiden's apron was full |
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Then out of these roses she made a bed |
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A scarlet pillow for her head |
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She laid her down, no words she did speak |
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And then this maiden's heart, it did break |
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She's like the swallow that flies on high |
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She's like the river that never runs dry |
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She's like the sun beaming on the lea shore |
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I love my love, but love is no more |
