Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/149



Plant a slip of myrtle green,
 * Plant a slip, my maiden;

For your wedding it will be,
 * For a wreath, my maiden.

When she planted it with joy,
 * To the war he had to go;

And before the myrtle bloomed,
 * Ah, she was lying low.

When he came back from the war,
 * Myrtles they were seeking.

From her tree they cut a twig,
 * For his coffin weeping.