A vintner had a daughter, the Golden Sun his sign,
I tarried at his tavern, I drank his choicest wine;
I drank out all his cellar, bestrode my horse, and then,
I said the maid I'd marry,—but never told him when!
4
The guineas are expended, the wine is also spent;
The widow and the maiden, they languish and lament.
And if they come to seek me, I'll pack them back again,
With promises of marriage,—but never tell them when.
5
My little horse I mounted, the world that I might see,
I found a pretty maiden—as poor as poor could be.
My little horse neglected, to London ran away,
I asked if she would marry, and bade her name the day.
[No 102 AMONG THE NEW-MOWN HAY]
C.J.S.
