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Robert Herrick - The Mad Maid`s Song
Work rating: Low

Good morrow to the day so fair;
Good morning, sir, to you;
Good morrow to mine own torn hair,
Bedabbled with the dew.

Good morning to this primrose too;
Good morrow to each maid;
That will with flowers the tomb bestrew
Wherein my Love is laid.

Ah!  woe is me, woe, woe is me,
Alack and well-a-day!
For pity, sir, find out that bee,
Which bore my Love away.

I`ll seek him in your bonnet brave;
I`ll seek him in your eyes;
Nay, now I think they`ve made his grave
I` th` bed of strawberries.

I`ll seek him there; I know, ere this,
The cold, cold earth doth shake him;
But I will go, or send a kiss
By you, sir, to awake him.

Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,
He knows well who do love him;
And who with green turfs rear his head,
And who do rudely move him.

He`s soft and tender, pray take heed,
With bands of cowslips bind him,
And bring him home;—but `tis decreed
That I shall never find him.
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