THE STRAWBERRIES.
85
THE STRAWBERRIES.
My love went gath’ring strawberries,
Where green the pine-trees grow;
Her tender foot a thorn hath pierced,
That grew so sharp below,
And now my true-love can no more
Upon her white foot go.
O why hast thou, thou thorn so sharp,
Thus wrought the maiden pain?
For this shalt thou, thou thorn so sharp,
Out of the wood be ta’en.
O come, my love, into the shade,
All under the greenwood tree!
I’ll to the meadow go and fetch
My steed so white to see.
The steed upon the meadow roams,
On the thick grass feedeth he;
My love’s beneath the cool, cool shade,
For her lover tarries she.
