Oh ! golden is the gorse-bush.
Beneath an April sky,
The lark is full of singing,
The clouds are white and high ;
But my love, my love is faithless.
And she cares no more for I !

Then what's the good of living.
With the bright sun overhead.
When the earth is always ready
And will give a kinder bed,
Where no vows be made or broken.
And no bitter words are said !