In my little thatched hut
where blue-green grass grows by the brook
I lounge and I look
(I lounge and I look. I lounge and I look)
for my own true love to return--
to come rowing in his rowboat back.

I'll go to the flower stall
and get a violet to put in my jet black hair
and make him tell me which one is the more fair
And in the meantime I cry

And in the meantime I cry
But what does it matter?
Because when I seem him again,
it'll be tears of joy