Tell me, where's the violet fled.
Late so gayly blowing.
Springing 'neath fair Flora's tread,
Choicest sweets bestowing?
Swain, the vernal scene is o'er,
And the violet blooms no more.

Say, where hides the blushing rose,
Pride of fragrant morning,
Garland meet for beauty's brows,
Hill and dale adorning?
Gentle maid, the summer's fled,
And the hapless rose is dead.

Bear me then to yonder rill,
Late so freely flowing,
Watering many a daffodil
On its margin glowing.
Sun and wind exhaust its store,
Yonder rivulet glides no more.

Lead me to the bowery shade,
Late with roses flaunting,
Loved resort of youth and maid,
Amorous ditties chanting.
Hail and wind with fury shower,
Leafless mourns the rifled bower!

Say, where bides the village maid,
Late yon cot adorning?