Once there was a wild rose gay
On the moorland growing,
When a careless boy at play
Chanced to see the tempting spray
Which the breeze was blowing.
Soft red rose, red rose of May,
On the moorland growing.

Said the boy:'I'll pick you now,
On the moorland growing.'
Said the rose: 'I'll prick you now,
That you may remember how
Sad I was at going.'
Soft red rose, red rose of May,
On the moorland growing.

Roughly then he snatched his prize
On the moorland growing,
After this he'll be more wise;
There before his very eyes
Blood was freely flowing.
Soft red rose, red rose of May,
On the moorland growing.