The Mad Maid's Song

Good-morrow to the day so fair,

Good-morning, sir, to you;

Good-morrow to mine own torn hair

Bedabbled with the dew.

Good-morning to this primrose too,

Good-morrow to each maid

That will with flowers the tomb bestrew

Wherein my love is laid.

Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me!

Alack and well-a-day!

For pity, sir, find out that bee

Which bore my love away.

I'll seek him in your bonnet brave,

I'll seek him in your eyes;

Nay, now I think they've made his grave

I' th' bed of strawberries.

I'll seek him there; I know ere this

The cold, cold earth doth shake him;

But I will go, or send a kiss

By you, sir, to awake him.

Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,

He knows well who do love him,

And who with green turfs rear his head,

And who do rudely move him.