Hide your heads, ye flow'rs of spring,
Stoop, proud lily, on your stem,
Birds, cease your songs, ye cannot sing,
Fair nature, yield your diadem.
For my lady comes, my lady comes.

Poor flow'rs, why seek to rival her!
Proud lily, never try to rise.
Sweet birds, your songs may no more stir
The zephyrs of the summer skies
When my lady's here, my lady's here.

She's fairer than the sweetest flow'r,
She's purer than the lily fair.
There is no bird in bush or bower
That can with her sweet voice compare.
Hush! my lady sings, my lady sings!

Fair flow'rs forgive me, bloom again!
Pale lily, I your pardon crave.
Birds sing a dirge in doleful strain.
Weep flow'rs and birds upon her grave.
For my lady's dead, for my lady's dead.