Weave me no wreath of orange blossom,
No bridal white shall me adorn;
I wear a red rose in my bosom
To-morrow I shall wear the thorn.
Bing me no gauds to deck my beauty,
Put by the jewels and the lace
My love to honor and to duty
It was plighted ere he saw my face.
I hear his impatient charger neighing,
I hear the trumpets blow alar!
His comrades ride, as to a-Maying
Jesting and splendid to the war.
Why is my lady-mother weeping?
Why is my father gricvèd sore?
Oh, love, God has you in His keeping,
The day you leave your true-love's door.
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