‘I am as brown as brown can be,
My eyes as black as a sloe;
I am as brisk as a nightingale,
And as wilde as any doe.
‘My love has sent me a love-letter,
Not far from yonder town,
That he could not fancy me,
Because I was so brown.
‘I sent him his letter back again,
For his love I valu’d not,
Whether that he could fancy me
Or whether he could not.
‘He sent me his letter back again,
That he lay dangerous sick,
That I might then go speedily
To give him up his faith.’
Now you shall hear what love she had
Then for this love-sick man;
She was a whole long summer’s day
In a mile a going on.
When she came to her love’s bed-side,
Where he lay dangerous sick,
She could not for laughing stand
Upright upon her feet.
She had a white wand all in her hand,
And smoothd it all on his breast;
‘In faith and troth come pardon me,
I hope your soul’s at rest.
‘I’ll do as much for my true-love
As other maidens may;
I’ll dance and sing on my love’s grave
A whole twelvemonth and a day.’