She neither is in, she neither is out,
She's in the garret a-walking about.
Down she comes as white as milk,
A rose in her bosom, as soft as silk.
She takes off her gloves, and shows me a ring;
To-morrow, to-morrow, the wedding begins.[53]
Concord, Mass. (before 1800).
The version now played in New York streets is corrupt, but has a spirited melody:
Wa-ter, wa-ter, wild-flowers, grow-ing up so high;
We are all young la-dies, And we are sure to die,
Ex-cept-ing Su-sie Al-len, She is the fin-est flow-er.
Fie, fie, fie for shame; Turn about and tell your beau's name.
The girl complying, the ballad proceeds—
