How should I your true love know
From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff
And his sandal shoon.
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf
At his heels a stone.
White his shroud as the mountain snow,
Larded with sweet flowers.
Which bewept to the grave did not go
With true-love showers.

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