Oh, hearts that wear the willow,
To you I tell my woe,
Why thus uncared, ungartered,
And all so pale I go.
Come, you wan lovers sighing
Who too have felt the thorn,
But let none heart-whole linger
To laugh my grief to scorn.
Demure in church on Sunday
My love I chanced to see,
Amidst her gentle praying
I vow she looked on me.
On Monday in the meadow
I lingered by the stile,
She did but touch my fingers,
And passed me with a smile.
On Tuesday, mute and rosy,
I stood upon her way,
My heart it nigh betrayed me,
'Good-morrow,' did she say.
With blushing cheek on Wednesday
Her path she went all slow;
How feared I such a fair maid?—
I could not move to go.

On Thursday, brave and daring,
I vowed I'd speak her fair,
She turned her glances from me,
And passed me, head in air.
All pale on Friday morning
I waited by her path,
She flashed her eyes upon me,
And pierced me with their wrath.
On Saturday, if that day
Should ever dawn for me,
I'll die for cruel Chloris
Beneath the cypress-tree.