Bring me the roses white and red, br And take the laurel leaves away; br Yea, wreathe the roses round my head br That wearies 'neath the crown of bay. br 'We searched the wintry forests thro' br And found no roses anywhere— br But we have brought a little rue br To twine a circlet for your hair.' br I would not pluck the rose in May, br I wove a laurel crown instead; br And when the crown is cast away, br They bring me rue — the rose is dead.