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Lay still my fond shepherd and don't you rise yet |
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It's a fine dewy morning and besides, my love, it is wet. |
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Oh let it be wet my love and ever so cold |
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I will rise my fond Floro and away to my fold. |
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Oh no, my bright Floro, it is no such thing |
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It's a bright sun a-shining and the lark is on the wing. |
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Oh the lark in the morning she rises from her nest |
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And she mounts in the air with the dew on her breast |
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And like a pretty ploughboy she'll whistle and sing |
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And at night she will return to her own nest again |
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When the ploughboy has done all he's got for to do |
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He trips down to the meadows where the grass is all cut down. |
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Oh the lark in the morning she rises from her nest |
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And she climbs to the dawn with the dew on her breast |
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And like a pretty ploughboy she'll whistle and sing |
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And at night she will return to her own nest again |
