And among the flouirs in my garden,
I’ll shape a weed for thee.
“The lilye flouir to be your smock;
It becomes your bodie best;
Your head shall be bushit wi’ the gellye-flouir;
The primrose in your breist.
“Your gown sall be o’ the sweet-william
Your coat o’ the cammovine;
Your apron o’ the seel of downs—
Come smile, sweetheart o’ mine!