Rosebud in the Heather (1771)

 

Urchin saw a rose – a dear

Rosebud in the heather.

Fresh as dawn and morning-clear;

Ran up quick and stooped to peer,

Took his fill of pleasure,

Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,

Rosebud in the heather.

 

Urchin blurts: "I'll pick you, though,

Rosebud in the heather!"

Rosebud: "Then I'll stick you so

That there's no forgetting, no!

I'll not stand it, ever!"

Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,

Rosebud in the heather.

 

But the wild young fellow's torn

Rosebud from the heather.

Rose, she pricks him with her thorn;

Should she plead, or cry forlorn?

Makes no difference whether.

Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,

Rosebud in the heather.

 

 

Translated by John Frederick Nims