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'Twas on one Sunday
Morning as I rode o're the moss,
I had no thoughts of listing, till
the soldiers did me cross,
They kindly did invite me to a flowing
bowl and down.
They advanced me, they advanced me!
They advanced me, they advanced me!
Some money a shilling from the crown.
Oh
yes my love has listed and he wears
a white cockade,
He is a handsome young man like wise
a roving blade,
He is a handsome young man and he's
gone to serve the king.
And my very, and my very!
And my very, and my very!
Heart is breaking all for the love
of him.
Oh yes my love is
handsome and comely for to see,
But by some sad misfortune a soldier
now is he.
May the very man that listed him never
flourish night nor day.
And I wish that, and I wish that!
And I wish that, and I wish that!
The Hollanders would sink him in the
sea.
And may he never
prosper and may never thrive,
Nor anything he turns his hand to as
long as he's alive.
May the very ground he walks upon the
grass refuse to grow,
Since he's being, since he's being!
Since he's being, since he's being!
The source of my sorrow, grief and
woe.
Then he took out
his handkerchief to wipe her weeping
eyes.
“Leave off these lamentations
likewise these mournful cries,
Leave off these lamentations while
I march o’er the plain.
We'll be married, we'll be married!
We'll be married, we'll be married!
In Newcastle when I return again.”
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