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.
V
My daughter, daughter dear,
If better be, more fit,
I’ll send him to the court awhile,
To point his pretty wit.
But the snow, snowflakes fall,
O and I am chill as dead:
Whilst my pretty lad is young
And is growing.
VI
To let the lovely ladies know
They may not touch and taste,
I’ll bind a bunch of ribbons red
About his little waist.
But the raven hoarsely croaks,
And I shiver in my bed;
Whilst my pretty lad is young
And is growing.
VII
I married was, alas,
A lady high to be,
In court and stall and stately hall,
And bower of tapestry.
But the bell did only knell,
And I shuddered as one cold:
When I wed the pretty lad
Not done growing.
VIII
At fourteen he wedded was,
A father at fifteen,
At sixteen ’s 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.