As I was a-wandering In the month of sweet
May I heard a young ploughboy To whistle and to say And aye as he was lamenting These words he did say There's
no life like the ploughboy In the month of sweet May.
The lark is a bonny bird And flies off her nest She
mounts in the morn air With the dew on her breast She flies o'er the ploughboy, She whistles and she sings And
at eve she returns With the dew on her wing.
Early one morning The ploughboy arose Whistling and singing To
his horses as he goes He met a pretty fair maid, He met her in the land One question he asked her And he thought
it was no shame.
One question he asked her; He would take her to the fair To buy her some ribbons For to
tie up her hair Now this fair maid Being young and foolish To the fair would not go Saying: I don't want your
ribbons I can buy myself a bow.
Then walking and talking Down by yon shady grove With no-one to listen But
the young turtle dove He threw his arms around her neck And brought her to the fair And he bought her the ribbons For
to tie back her hair.
And as they returned from The fair unto the town The meadows were mowed and The grass
it was cut down The nightingale she whistled Upon the hawthorn spray And the moon was a-shining Upon the new-mown
hay.
Good luck unto the ploughboys Wherever they may be They will take a winsome lass For to sit at upon their
knee And with a jug of beer, boys They'll whistle and they'll sing And the ploughboy is as happy As a prince or
a king.
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