My Lady's cheek is soft and red,
My Lady holds her lovely head
On high, and why?
She knows not yet of care or woe.
She only lives to bud and blow,
My foolish Lady Jacqueminot.

My Lady's cheek less soft and red,
My Lady bows her weary head,
And why? She's nigh
A heart that once was light as snow,
But hearts and flowers, die you know
When broken, Lady Jacqueminot.