14
Meet me to night, my dear,
Something I will declare;
Poor soul! she little thinking of the deed.
She threw the letter down and run with speed,
Thinking to meet her own true love indeed;
She search’d the garden round,
But no true love she found:
At length the bloody gardener did appear.
What business have you here, madam, I pray?
O, are you come to rob my garden gay?
She said, no thief I am,
I wait for a young man,
Who did appoint this night to meet me here.
He nothing more did say, but took a knife,
And bade her straight prepare to lose her life:
She on her knees did fall,
And to heaven did call,
O! welcome, welcome death, my fatal stroke!
Was this done, my dear, by your design?
Or was it by your parents, most unkind,
My life is thus betray’d?
Farewell! fond love she said,
I hope in heaven I a place shall find!
The bloody gardener found her life was gone,
Dead in the ground he laid her body down;
With flowers fine and gay,
The grave did overlay,
Thinking her fair body never might be found.
This youthful lord, indeed, did little know,
Next day to see his own true love did go;
No shepherdess was there,
All round the vallies fair,
The pretty lambs were wand’ring to and fro,
