Take her to the river, call her a river-child Take her to the forest, call her a little wild Sell her to the gypsy for a jar of metal coins Take her to the mountain and thrust yourself into her loins
Calico, Calico, Calico Her lips are white as snow
She moved to the mountains with a box all chiseled sharp She moved to the highlands with a box of books all dark I knew her in the city she and I would dance the night Drink the wine of dripping berries toss the moon and count the lights
Calico, Calico, Calico Her skin is soft as snow
Take her to the river, call her a river-child Take her to the forest, call her a little wild