It was a friar of orders gray,
Walkt forth to tell his beades;
And he met with a lady faire,
Clad in a pilgrime's weedes.

Now Heav'n thee save, thou reverend friar,
I pray thee tell to me,
If ever at your holy shrine
My true love thou didst see.

And how should I your true love know
From many another one?
O by his cockle hat and staff
And by his sandal shoone.

O lady, he's dead and gone!
Lady, he's dead and gone!
And at his head a green grass turfe,
And at his heels a stone.

Weep no more, lady, weep no more,
Thy sorrowe is in vaine:
For violets pluckt the sweetest showers
Will ne'er make grow againe.

Yet stay, fair lady, rest awhile
Beneath yon cloyster wall:
See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind,
And drizzling rain doth fall.

O stay me not, thou holy friar,
O stay me not, I pray;
No drizzling rain that falls on me
Can wash my fault away.