Oh, she was a lass from the low countree And he was a lord of high degree But she loved his lordship so tenderly. 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.
One morn when the sun was on the mead He passed her door on a <...> 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 degree They haint 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.