The Pretty Rose-Tree.

Being weary of love,                 I flew to the grove,     And chose me a tree of the fairest;                 Saying, "Pretty Rose-tree,                 "Thou my mistress shall be,         "And I'll worship each bud thou bearest.             "For the hearts of this world are hollow,             "And fickle the smiles we follow;                     "And 'tis sweet, when all                     "Their witcheries pall     "To have a pure love to fly to:                     "So, my pretty Rose-tree,                     "Thou my mistress shalt be,     "And the only one now I shall sigh to."                     When the beautiful hue                     Of thy cheek thro' the dew     Of morning is bashfully peeping,                     "Sweet tears," I shall say                     (As I brush them away),         "At least there's no art in this weeping"         Altho thou shouldst die to-morrow;         'Twill not be from pain or sorrow;                     And the thorns of thy stem                     Are not like them     With which men wound each other;                     So, my pretty Rose-tree,                     Thou my mistress shalt be     And I'll never again sigh to another.