Oh, he was a Lord of high de gree,
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 would flowers
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 wild flowers
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 de
gree; They hain't got a heart for sympathy.
Oh, sorrow, sing sorrow!
Now she sleeps in the valley where the wild flowers
nod, And no one knows she loved him but herself and God.