I leaned my back against an oak, Thinking it was a trusty tree, But first it bowed and then he broke, And so my love proved false to me.
Wherefore should I weed the flowers? Wherefore should I tend my hedge? For my true love has me forsook And says he'll never love me more.
'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell, Nor blowing snow's inclemency, 'Tis not that i'm cold that makes me cry; But my love's heart's grown cold to me.
O waly, waly, that love be bonny For a little while when it is new! But when it's cold, it waxes old, And fades away like the morning dew.