OTHERS may roses sing,
The flower of the heart is distress.
O! Life is a dreary thing,
When she you love is merciless.
Love is dead. She'll tell you why,
Who is laughing in shamelessness.
Poor lover, go thy way, head high,
And never come back in a false dress.
There are other women, they swear,
There is other loveliness.
But this lover loved his fair.
And the flower of the heart is distress.
