One fine morning as I was walking, The weather being bright and clear, I overheard a tender mother, Talking to her daughter dear.
"Daughter, I would have you marry, No longer lead a single life." "O no," said she, "I'd rather tarry, For my jolly sailor bright."
"Sailors they are given to roving, Into foreign parts they go; Then they leave you broken-hearted, Full of sorrow, grief and woe."
"Mother, would you have me wed a farmer, Take from me my heart's delight! Give me the lad whose tarry tarry trowsers Shine to my eyes like diamonds bright."