"I gather flowers; my heart I'm telling
My garlanded hair will attest my vow."
"Cook not your fowls, nor trim your dresses,
Put no flowers in your hair.
My dear rose pale, for your raven tresses
A branch of willow you may find and wear."
The fatal fight is done and over,
Three came back to tell the tale.
On the bloody field there lies thy lover,
And his winding sheet is his broken mail.