Down the lane wandered the maiden fair,
And plucked the wild roses here and there;
Fair were the roses in their bloom,
Fresh and sweet was their rich perfume.
She gathered the buds of the sweet-briar wild,
And wreathed her flowers like a happy child;
The finch sang softly, the thrush sang high,
The breezes murmured a low reply;
Flushed with bloom was the wild-rose tree,
Flushed with a lovelier bloom was she.

In the rose garden the maiden stands,
And twines the blossoms with loving hands;
Bright are the roses in their prime,
Bright is the golden summer time.
Golden the roses, golden the hours,
For Love has found her among the flowers.
She hears the redbird call his mate,
She hears the coo of the brooding dove;
The oriole warbles his song elate,
And life is a golden dream of love.

Down by the river, at daylight's close,
The young girl sits with her lover there;
Rich is the flush of the dark red rose
That is twined in the braids of her sunny hair.
Sweet is the breath of the perfect flower,
Sweet is her lover's raptured kiss;
Her life is crowned with its perfect hour,
Her heart is thrilled with a perfect bliss.
Deep grow the shadows; the air grows chill;
Weird is the cry of the whippoorwill.

White and silent the maiden lies;
White and still is the shaded room;
Closed to earth are her curtained eyes;
Sweet is the air with a faint perfume.
White are the roses on her breast;
White is the soul of the maid at rest:
Drop a tear on her lovely brow;
Naught of earth can stain her now.

Strew, where they lay her, the roses fair;
Plant the wild sweet-briar at her head;
And let the golden roses there,
Upon her grave, their splendor shed.
There let the deep red roses glow;
There let the lonely whippoorwill
Still, as the summers come and go,
With plaintive call the ether thrill;
And plant the white rose on her breast,
Lovelier, purer, than all the rest.