How sweet are the flowers that grow by yon fountain,
And sweet are the cowslips that spangle the grove,
And sweet is the breeze that blows over the mountain,
But sweeter by far is the lad that I love.
I’ll weave a gay garland, a fresh blowing garland,
With lilies and roses, and sweet blooming poses,
To give to the lad my heart tells me I love.
It was down in the vale where the sweet Torza gliding
In murmuring streams ripples thro’ the dark grove;
I own’d what I felt, all my passion confiding,
To ease the fond sighs of the lad that I love.
Then I’ll weave a gay garland, &c.