Fresh are the roses.

Early one morning, just as the sun was rising,
I heard a maiden singing in the valley below:
"Oh don't deceive me: Oh, never leave me.
How could you use a poor maiden so?

Oh, gay is the garland, and fresh are the roses,
I've cull'd from the garden to bind on thy brow.
Oh, don't deceive me: Oh, never leave me.
How could you use a poor maiden so?

Remember the vows that you made to your Mary,
Remember the bower where you vowed to be true.
Oh, don't deceive me: Oh, never leave me.
How could you use a poor maiden so?"

Thus sang the poor maiden, her sorrows bewailing,
Thus sang the poor maid in the valley below;
"Oh, don't deceive me: Oh, never leave me.
How could you use a poor maiden so?"

I'm home and safe, and shall hopefully post photos tomorrow.
It feels all weird to be back.