THE TREES THEY ARE SO HIGH
All the trees they are so high,
The leaves they are so green,
The day is past and gone, sweet-heart,
That you and I have seen.
It is cold winter's night,
You and I must bide alone:
Whilst my pretty lad is young
And is growing.
O father, father dear,
Great wrong to me is done,
That I should married be this day,
Before the set of sun.
At the huffle of the gale,
Here I toss and cannot sleep:
Whilst my pretty lad is young
And is growing.
O daughter, daughter dear,
No wrong to thee is done,
For I have married thee this day
Unto a rich Lord's son.
O the wind is on the thatch
Here and I alone must weep:
Whilst my pretty lad is young
And is growing.
O father, father dear,
If that you think it fit,
Then send him to the school awhile,
To be a year there yet.
At the huffle of the gale
Here I toss and cannot sleep:
Whilst my pretty lad is young
And is growing.
To let the lovely ladies know
They may not touch and taste,
I'll bind a bunch of ribbons blue
About his little waist,
And I'll wait another year
O he roaring of the sea:
Whilst my pretty lad is young
And is growing.
In a garden as I walked,
I heard them laugh and call;
There were four-and-twenty playing there,
They played with bat and ball;
I must wait awhile, must wait,
And then his bride will be:
O my pretty lad is young
And is growing.
I listened in the garden,
I looked o'er the wall;
Amidst five-and-twenty gallants there,
My love exceeded all.
The Trees they are so High s'
O the snow, the snowflakes fall,
O and I am chill and freeze:
But my pretty lad is young
And is growing.
I'll cut my yellow hair,
I'll cut it close my brow,
I'll go unto the high college
And none shall know me so;
O the clouds are driving by
And they shake the leafy trees:
But my pretty lad is young
And is growing.
To the college I did go,
I cut my yellow hair;
To be with him in sun and shower,
His sports and studies share.
O the taller that he grew
The sweeter still grew he:
O my pretty lad is young
And is growing.
As it fell upon a day,
A bright and summer day,
We went into the green green wood
To frolic and to play,
O and what did there befall
I tell not unto thee:
But my pretty lad so young,
Was still growing.
At thirteen he married was,
A father at fourteen,
At fifteen his face was white as milk,
And then his grave was green;
And the daisies were outspread,
And buttercups of gold
O'er my pretty lad so young,
Now ceased growing.
I'll make my pretty love
A shroud of holland fine,
And all the time Im making it
My tears run down the twine;
And as the bell doth knell
I shiver as one cold,
And weep o'er my pretty lad
Now done growing.