GAI LE ROSIER.
Behind my aunt's there groweth
A wood all greenery;
The nightingale's song filleth
Its glades with melodie.
Gai lon la, gai le rosier
Du joli mois de mai.
The nightingale's song filleth
Its glades with melodie;
He sings for maids whose beauty
No lover holds in fee.
He sings for maids whose beauty
No lover holds in fee;
For me he singeth never,
For my True-love loves me.
