And thither will I go!
To the rosy vale, where the nightingale
Sings his song of woe.
The virgin is on the river side,
Culling the lemons pale:
Thither—yes! thither will I go,
To the rosy vale, where the nightingale
Sings his song of woe.
The fairest fruit her hand hath cull’d,
’Tis for her lover all: