My love is like a heathrose tree,
adornment of my yard.
His scent will touch internally
all fibres of my heart.

I’ll never harm my bonnie rose,
at last I’m not a male.
How bad things go, precisely shows
the heathrose in the tale.

The rascal had become a thief.
The misdeed he had done
just gave him very short relief.
The rose bud, though, she's gone.

My heathrose tree, so white and green,
ablazing with the sun,
will all the summers bloom for me
until my days are done.