The Bride

WEAVE me no wreath of orange blossom, No bridal white shall me adorn; I wear a red rose in my bosom; To-morrow I shall wear the thorn. Bring me no gauds to deck my beauty, Put by the jewels and the lace; My love to honour and to duty Was plighted ere he saw my face. I hear his impatient charger neighing, I hear the trumpets blow afar! His comrades ride, as to a Maying, Jesting and splendid to the war. Why is my lady-mother weeping? Why is my father grievèd sore? Oh, love, God have you in His keeping, The day you leave your true-love's door. Gay is the golden harvest spreading, The orchard's all in rose and gold; Who said it was a mournful wedding? My hand in yours, Love, is not cold. Go glad and gay to meet the foeman, I love you to my latest breath; Oh, love, there is no happier woman. See, I am smiling! Love-till death!