In my little thatched hut where blue-green gra** grows by the brook I lounge and I look (I lounge and I look. I lounge and I look) for my own true love to return-- to come rowing in his rowboat back. I'll go to the flower stall and get a violet to put in my jet black hair and make him tell me which one is the more fair And in the meantime I cry And in the meantime I cry But what does it matter? Because when I seem him again, it'll be tears of joy