Far in the inland valleys,
The Spring her secret tells;
The roses lift on the bushes,
The lilies shake their bells.

To a lily of the valley
A white rose leans from above
“Little white flower o'the valley,
Come up and be my love.”

To the lily of the valley
A speedwell whispers, “No!
Where the roses live are thorns,
'Tis safe below.”

The lily clomb to the rose-bush,
A thorn in her side:
The white rose has wedded a red rose,
And the lily died.