If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear,
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year.
It is the last New-year that I shall ever see,
Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me.

To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; 
And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see 
The [blossom on]1 the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.

Last May we made a crown of flowers: we had a merry day; 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May; 
And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse, 
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.

There's not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on the pane: 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again: 
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high: 
I long to see a flower so before the day I die.

The building rook'll caw from the windy tall elm-tree, 
And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 
And the swallow'll come back again with summer o'er the wave. 
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, 
In the early, early morning the summer sun'll shine, 
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, 
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still.

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light 
You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night;
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool 
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.

[You]2'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, 
And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. 
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass,
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now; 
You'll kiss me, my own mother, [and forgive me ere I go]3;
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, 
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.

If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place; 
Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;
Tho' I cannot speak a word, 1 shall harken what you say, 
And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away.

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for evermore, 
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door; 
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green: 
She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.

She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor: 
Let her take 'em: they are hers: I shall never garden more: 
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set 
About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette.

Good-night, sweet mother: call me [before the day is born]4.
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; 
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, 
So, if your waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.