False Love, take hence thy roses,
Give me the bitter Rue
That on my heart reposes,
Sorrow at least is true.

Maiden so fair and pale,
Wandering adown the dale,
What flow'r that drinks the dew
Or light is dear to you?—
The bitter Rue.

Maid on thy wedding day,
Wan as the flower of May,
What buds of brightest hue,
Say shall we weave for you?—
The bitter Rue.