I LAVED my hands, BY the water side； With the willow¹ leaves My hands I dried. The nightingale sung On the bough² of the tree； Sing, sweet nightingale, It is well with thee.

    Thou hast heart's delight, I have sad heart's sorrow For a false false maid That will wed³ to-morrow.

    'Tis all for a rose, That I gave her not, And I would that it grew In the garden plot.

    And I would the rose-tree Were still to set, That my love Marie Might love me yet.