A Roundelay

Come, sit beneath the hawthorn tree,
And press thy lips to mine:
I have a merry song for thee,
Will cheer thy heart like wine.

O well the bonny heath may smile,
The lark sing clear above:
For we will love a little while,
Though all iu vain we love.

And green the leaves should be o'erhead.
The bracken brown beneath:
For O, that thou and I lay dead
Upon the bonny heath!