As I walked forth one Summer's day
To view the meadows green and gay,
A pleasant bower I espied
Standing fast by a riverside: 
And in't a Maiden I heard cry, 
"Alas, alas! There's none e're lov'd as I." 

Then round the meadow she did walk,
Catching each flower by the stalk; 
Such flowers as in the meadow grew, 
The Dead-man's Thumb, and Harebell Blue,
And as she pull'd them, still cried she, 
"Alas, alas! There's none e're lov'd like me." 

The flowers of the sweetest scents
She bound about with knotty bents,
And as she bound them up in bands, 
She wept, she sighed and wrung her hands.
"Alas, alas, alas," cried she, 
"Alas! alas! There's none e're lov'd like me."

When she had fill'd her apron full
Of such green things as she could cull, 
The green leaves serv'd her for her bed,
The flowers were pillows for her head:
Then down she laid, ne'r more did speak;
Alas! Alas! With love her heart did break.