The hour I prove false to my dark-headed darling,
  Let the grass grow to crimson, the frost fall in June;
The lark cease to sing, and the rook and the starling
  With the cuckoo and blackbird come changing their tune.

A long, long farewell, to my white-bosomed deary,
  And believe I'll be faithful whatever befall;
And of working to win you by day never weary,
  And by night never tire your dear face to recall.

Ah! branch of sweet bloom only cling on as faithful
  In that absence of years as you cling to me now,
For the hour you prove false Heaven and earth would grow hateful
  Since you called them to witness your young virgin vow.