| Lay still my fond shepherd and don’t you rise yet
|
| It’s a fine dewy morning and besides, my love, it is wet
|
| Oh let it be wet my love and ever so cold
|
| I will rise my fond Floro and away to my fold
|
| Oh no, my bright Floro, it is no such thing
|
| It’s a bright sun a-shining and the lark is on the wing
|
| Oh the lark in the morning she rises from her nest
|
| And she mounts in the air with the dew on her breast
|
| And like a pretty ploughboy she’ll whistle and sing
|
| And at night she will return to her own nest again
|
| When the ploughboy has done all he’s got for to do
|
| He trips down to the meadows where the grass is all cut down
|
| Oh the lark in the morning she rises from her nest
|
| And she climbs to the dawn with the dew on her breast
|
| And like a pretty ploughboy she’ll whistle and sing
|
| And at night she will return to her own nest again |