Boy once saw a rosebud rare, Rosebud in the heather, Fresh as morning's glow and fair, Near he ran to see her there, Saw the rose with pleasure. Rosebud, little rosebud red, Rosebud in the heather. "I will pick you, rose," said he, "Rosebud in the heather!" "I will prick you, boy," said she, "That you'll always think of me. I'll not grant your pleasure." Rosebud, little rosebud red, Rosebud in the heather. And the rash boy broke the rose, Rosebud in the heather. With her thorns she dared oppose. Useless all her ah's and oh's, Had to grant his pleasure. Rosebud, little rosebud red, Rosebud in the heather.