It is not the weet that wearies me;
Nor is it the frost that freezes fell,
But I love a lad, and I dare not tell.
Oh, faith is gone, and truth is past,
And my true love's forsaken me;
If all be true that I hear say,
I 'll mourn until the day I die.
Oh, if I had nere been born,
That to have died, when I was young;
Then I had never wet my cheeks