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Oh he was a lord of high degree,
and she was a lass from the Low Countree,
But she loved his lordship so tenderly,
Oh sorrow, sing sorrow!
Now she sleeps in the valley where the wildflowers nod,
And no one knows she loved him, but herself
and God.
One morn when the sun was on the mead,
He passed by her door on a milk white steed;
She smiled and she spoke,
but he paid no heed.
Oh sorrow, sing sorrow!
Now she sleeps in the valley where the wildflowers nod,
and no one knows she loved him, but herself
and God.
If you be a lass from the Low Countree,
don't love of no lord of high degree;
They hain't got a heart for sympathy.
Oh sorrow, sing sorrow!
Now she sleeps in the valley where the wildflowers nod,
and no one knows she loved him, but herself
and God.