As I was walking one morning in the spring
I met a fair damsel, so sweetly she did sing.
And as we was a-walking she unto me did say,
"Now there's no life like the ploughboy's all in the month of May."
Oh the lark in the morning she rises from her nest
And flies all up into the air with the dew upon her breast.
And like the pretty ploughboy she'll whistle and she'll sing
And at night she will return to her home once again.
When the ploughboy has done all that he has got to do,
Perhaps unto the country way go walking he will go.
And there with his la**ie he will drink and he will sing
And at night they will return to their home once again.
And as they return from the wake of the town,
The meadows being mown and the gra** it being cut down;
If they by chance should tumble all on the new-mown hay,
Oh, it's "Kiss me now or never," this pretty maid would say.
And it's twenty long weeks being over and being past,
Her mother did ask her the reason why she thickened around the waist.
"Oh, it was the pretty ploughboy," the damsel she did say,
"Who caused me for to tumble all along the new-mown hay."
So good luck to the ploughboy wherever he may be
Who loves to take his la**ie and sit her on his knee,
With a jug of the good strong beer he'll whistle and he'll sing
For the ploughboy is as happy as a prince or as a king.