The rose was borne to another land,
And grew in another bed;
It was cultured by another hand,
And it sprung and flourishèd;
And fair it budded day by day
Beneath a new sun's cheering ray.
But long lies the dew on its crimson leaves,
It almost looks like tears;
The flower for the yeoman's home-close grieves
Amid a King's parterres.
Little moss-rose, cease to weep,
Let regret and sorrow sleep.
The rose is blasted, withered, blighted,
Its root has felt a worm,
And like a heart beloved and slighted,
Failed, faded, shrunk its form.
Bud of beauty, bonnie flower,
I stole thee from thy natal bower.
I was the worm that withered thee,
Thy tears of dew all fell for me;
Leaf and stalk and rose are gone,
Exile earth they died upon.
Yes, that last breath of balmy scent
With alien breezes sadly blent.
