O where ha you been, Lord Randall, my son?
And where ha you been, my handsome young man?

I ha been at the greenwood; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.

And wha met ye there, Lord Randall, my son?
And wha met ye there, my handsome young man?

I met wi my true-love; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.

And what did she give you, Lord Randall, my son?
And what did she give you, my handsome young man?

Eels fried in a pan; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.

And what gat your leavins, Lord Randall, my son?
And what gat your leavins, my handsome young man?

My hawks and my hounds; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.

And what becam of them, Lord Randall, my son?
And what becam of them, my handsome young man?

They stretched their legs out and died; mother mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.

O I fear you are poisoned, Lord Randall, my son!
I fear you are poisoned, my handsome young man!

O yes, I am poisoned; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart, and fain wad lie down.

What d’ye leave to your mother, Lord Randall, my son?
What d’ye leave to your mother, my handsome young man?

My gold and my silver; mother mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart, an I fain wad lie down.

What d’ye leave to your brother, Lord Randall, my son?
What d’ye leave to your brother, my handsome young man?

My houses and my lands; mother mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.

What d’ye leave to your true-love, Lord Randall, my son?
What d’ye leave to your true-love, my handsome young man?

I leave her hell and fire; mother mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.

You have forgotten me, but I forget not,
How kind you were before another shadow 
Fell beside yours in garth and garden-closes, 
And on the sweet grass of the water-meadow, 
Her shadow close to yours among the roses:
The grace that summer yields her, I regret not —  
You have forgotten me, but I forget not. 

You have forgotten me, but I remember: 
I bide my time, dear heart; I bide my time. 
You have no need of me now lilies blow,
And bees are busy in the murmuring lime. 
But when the lilies lose themselves in snow, 
Love, you will cry on me in mid-December;
You have forgotten me, but I remember. 

Forget me now you're glad, but when you're grieving 
Turn home to me for comfort; there's no rue 
Grown in my garden for my Dear to gather: 
Only kind rosemary grows green for you. 
And I have honey sucked from highland heather,
And dreams for you of mine own faithful weaving; 
Be glad with her to-day! I wait your grieving.