The Bride

Weave me no wreath of orange blossom,
No bridal white shall me adorn;
I wear a red rose in my bosom;
To-morrow I shall wear the thorn.

Bring me no gauds to deck my beauty,
Put by the jewels and the lace;
My love to honour and to duty
Was plighted ere he saw my face.

I hear his impatient charger neighing,
I hear the trumpets blow afar!
His comrades ride, as to a Maying,
Jesting and splendid to the war.

Why is my lady-mother weeping?
Why is my father grievèd sore?
Oh, love, God have you in His keeping,
The day you leave your true-love's door.

Gay is the golden harvest spreading,
The orchard's all in rose and gold;
Who said it was a mournful wedding?
My hand in yours, Love, is not cold.

Go glad and gay to meet the foeman,
I love you to my latest breath;
Oh, love, there is no happier woman,
See, I am smiling! Love—till death!