| Oh Polly love, oh Polly, the rout has now begun
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| We must go a-marching to the beating of the drum
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| Dress yourself all in your best and come along with me
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| I’ll take you to the war, my love, in High Germany
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| Oh Willie love, oh Willie, come list what I do say
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| My feet they are so tender I cannot march away
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| And besides my dearest Willie I am with child by thee
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| Not fitted for the war, my love, in High Germany
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| I’ll buy for you a horse, my love, and on it you shall ride
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| And all my delight shall be in riding by your side
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| We’ll stop at every ale-house and drink when we are dry
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| We’ll be true to one another, get married by and by
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| Cursed be them cruel wars that ever they should rise
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| And out of merry England press many a man likewise
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| They pressed my true love from me likewise my brothers three
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| And sent them to the war, my love, in High Germany
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| My friends I do not value nor my foes I do not fear
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| Now my love has left me I wander far and near
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| And when my baby it is born and a-smiling on my knee
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| I’ll think of lovely Willie in High Germany |