In my little thatched hut

where blue-green grass grows by the brook

I lounge and I look

(I lounge and I look. I lounge and I look)

for my own true love to return--

to come rowing in his rowboat back.


I'll go to the flower stall

and get a violet to put in my jet black hair

and make him tell me which one is the more fair

And in the meantime I cry


And in the meantime I cry

But what does it matter?

Because when I seem him again,

it'll be tears of joy