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.
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