December 2

O in the fields the blossoms blow,
Apple, myrtle, rose and rue:
Yet is my flower weal or woe?
Is my love false or is she true?

O, I remember in the spring
With flowers blooming o'er the land
As all the birds began to sing
I took my Mary by the hand.

One summer morn I walked along
Through apple, myrtle, rose and rue
And as I went I sang this song:
My lovely Mary's ever true.

But O the dreadful news I heard!
The tongues around wagged up and down
And all the talk was of one word:
Sweet Mary's letting out her gown.

Then came my mother in and said,
"My son, my son, you've been beguiled,
The pretty maiden you would wed --
This very day she goes with child."

O Mary, Mary, why this shame?
Apple, myrtle, rose and rue
Where is the man and what his name?
Is my love false or is she true?

"O Joseph, Joseph, hear my plea:
He was an angel bright and fair
Who flew on heav'nly light to me
And said the Lord Most High I'd bear."

Then spoke her mother listening near,
Her smile was sad, her look was kind:
"My boy, my boy, I greatly fear
My poor girl Mary's lost her mind."

Yet as I slept that very night
I saw a wonder in my dreams:
A wingèd angel came in flight
Wrapped all around in golden beams.

"O Joseph, Joseph, now be glad:
Apple, myrtle, rose and rue
Your young bride Mary's never mad
And all she's told to you is true.

For Mary's shame and Mary's boy
Of whom the ancient sages spoke
Shall be the whole world's peace and joy."
And all at once I trembling woke.

But dreams do lie and dreams deceive
Apple, myrtle, rose and rue
And men in dreams fair fancies weave
Is Mary false or is she true?

And so I still go wondering:
Is my love false, or is she true?
And all day long my song I sing
Of apple, myrtle, rose and rue.