My True Love Is A Sailor

'T was somewhere in the April time,      Not long before the May,      A-sitting on a bank o' thyme      I heard a maiden say,      "My true love is a sailor,      And ere he went away      We spent a year together,      And here my lover lay.      The gold furze was in blossom,      So was the daisy too;      The dew-drops on the little flowers      Were emeralds in hue.      On this same Summer morning,      Though then the Sabbath day,      He crop't me Spring pol'ant'uses,      Beneath the whitethorn may.      He crop't me Spring pol'ant'uses,      And said if they would keep      They'd tell me of love's fantasies,      For dews on them did weep.      And I did weep at parting,      Which lasted all the week;      And when he turned for starting      My full heart could not speak.      The same roots grow pol'ant'us' flowers      Beneath the same haw-tree;      I crop't them in morn's dewy hours,      And here love's offerings be.      O come to me my sailor beau      And ease my aching breast;      The storms shall cease to rave and blow,      And here thy life find rest."