Gorbo, as thou cam'st this way
By yonder little hill,
Or as thou through the fields didst stray,
Saw'st thou my Daffadil?

She's in a frock of Lincoln green,
Which colour likes her sight,
And never hath her beauty seen
But through a veil of white:

Than roses richer to behold
That trim up lover's bowers,
The pansy and the marigold,
Though Phoebus' paramours. Gorbo

Thou well describ'st the daffadil:
It is not full an hour
Since by the spring, near yonder hill,
I saw that lovely flower. Batte

Yet my fair flower thou didst not meet,
Nor news of her didst bring:
And yet my Daffadil's more sweet
Than that by yonder spring. Gorbo

I saw a shepherd that doth keep
In yonder field of lilies,
Was making, as he fed his sheep,
A wreath of daffadillies. Batte

Yet, Gorbo, thou delud'st me still:
My flower thou didst not see.
For know, my pretty Daffadil
Is worn of none but me.

To show itself but near her seat
No lily is so bold,
Except to shade her from the heat
Or keep her from the cold. Gorbo

Through yonder vale as I did pass,
Descending from the hill,
I met a smirking bonny lass:
They call her Daffadil:

Whose presence, as along she went,
The pretty flowers did greet
As though their heads they downward bent
With homage to her feet.

And all the shepherds that were nigh,
From top of every hill,
Unto the valleys loud did cry:
‘There goes sweet Daffadil.’ Batte

Ay, gentle shepherd, now with joy
Thou all my flocks dost fill.
That's she alone, kind shepherd's boy:
Let us to Daffadil.