Anonymous

AS I was sitting on the grass

Within a silent shady grove,

I overheard a country lass,

Was there bewailing of her love.

‘My love,’ says she,

‘Is ta’en from me;

And to the wars is prest and gone;

He’s marched away,

And gone to sea;

Alack! alack! and well-a-day!

And left me here alone.

‘My Love, he was the kindest man;

There’s none that’s like him in the town;

He gently takes me by the hand,

And gave me many a green gown.

With kisses sweet

He would me treat,

And often sing a roundelay;

And sometimes smile,

Then chat awhile,

So that we might the time beguile

A life-long summer’s day.

‘My Love, on May Day, still would be

The earliest up of all the rest;

With scarves and ribbons then would be

Of all the crew, he finest drest.

With Morris bells

And fine things else:

But when the pipe began to play

He danced so well,

I heard them tell,

That he did all the rest excel,

And bore the bell away.

‘The man that took my Love away,

Was too too harsh, and too severe;

I gently on my knees did pray

That he my Love would then forbear.

I offered too

A breeding ewe

And chilver-lamb that were my own;

Do what I could,

It did no good,

He left me in this pensive mood,

To sigh, and make my moan.’