II

     O mother, my mother, this thing I must say: 
     There is a rose in the garden;
     Ere he lies on the breast where that other lay: 
     And the bird sings over the roses.

     Now, folly, my daughter, for men are men: 
     There is a rose in the garden;
     You marry them blindfold, I tell you again: 
     And the bird sings over the roses.

     O mother, but when he kisses me! 
     There is a rose in the garden;
     My child, ’tis which shall sweetest be! 
     And the bird sings over the roses.

     O mother, but when I awake in the morn! 
     There is a rose in the garden;
     My child, you are his, and the ring is worn: 
     And the bird sings over the roses.

     Tall Margaret sighed and loosened a tress: 
     There is a rose in the garden;
     Poor comfort she had of her comeliness
     And the bird sings over the roses.

     My mother will sink if this thing be said: 
     There is a rose in the garden;
     That my first betrothed came thrice to my bed;
     And the bird sings over the roses.

     He died on my shoulder the third cold night: 
     There is a rose in the garden;
     I dragged his body all through the moonlight: 
     And the bird sings over the roses.

     But when I came by my father’s door: 
     There is a rose in the garden;
     I fell in a lump on the stiff dead floor: 
     And the bird sings over the roses.

     O neither to heaven, nor yet to hell: 
     There is a rose in the garden;
     Could I follow the lover I loved so well! 
     And the bird sings over the roses.

     III

     The bridesmaids slept in their chambers apart: 
     There is a rose that’s ready;
     Tall Margaret walked with her thumping heart: 
     There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.

     The frill of her nightgown below the left breast: 
     There is a rose that’s ready;
     Had fall’n like a cloud of the moonlighted West: 
     There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.

     But where the West-cloud breaks to a star: 
     There is a rose that’s ready;
     Pale Margaret’s breast showed a winding scar: 
     There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.

     O few are the brides with such a sign! 
     There is a rose that’s ready;
     Though I went mad the fault was mine: 
     There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.

     I must speak to him under this roof to-night: 
     There is a rose that’s ready;
     I shall burn to death if I speak in the light: 
     There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.

     O my breast!  I must strike you a bloodier wound: 
     There is a rose that’s ready;
     Than when I scored you red and swooned: 
     There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.