For my love is in Normandy,
And oh! the scent of the bean-flower
Is like a burning fire in me.
Fair fall the lusty thorn,
She hath no curses at my hand,
But would the man were never born
That sowed the bean along his land!
For my love is in Normandy,
And oh! the scent of the bean-flower
Is like a burning fire in me.
Fair fall the lusty thorn,
She hath no curses at my hand,
But would the man were never born
That sowed the bean along his land!