Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Bonnie Mae, artist - Solas. Album song The Hour Before Dawn, in the genre Музыка мира
Date of issue: 21.05.2006
Record label: Shanachie
Song language: English
Bonnie Mae |
Bonnie Mae a-shepherding has gone |
To call the sheep to the fold |
And aye, as she sang, her bonny voice, it rang |
Right over the tops of the downs, downs |
Over the tops of the downs |
There came a troop of gentlemen |
As they were riding by |
And one of them has lighted down |
And he’s asked of her the way, the way |
He’s asked of her the way |
«Ride on, ride on, you rank riders |
Your steeds are stout and strong |
For it’s out of the fold I will not go |
For fear you’ll do me wrong, wrong |
Fear you’ll do me wrong» |
Now he’s taken her by the middle jip |
And by the green gown sleeve |
And there he’s had his will of her |
And he’s asked of her no leave, no leave |
He’s asked of her no leave |
«Oh I’ve ridden east and I’ve ridden west |
And I’ve ridden o’er the downs |
But the bonniest lass that ever I saw |
Is calling her sheep to the fold» |
She has taken the milk pail on her head |
And she’s gone lingering home |
And all her father said to her |
Was, «Daughter, you’ve done me wrong, wrong |
Daughter, you’ve done me wrong» |
Now twenty weeks were gone and past |
Twenty weeks and three |
And the lassie began to fret and to frown |
And to long for his twinkling eye, bright eye |
Long for his twinkling eye |
Now it fell on a day, and a bonny summer’s day |
For she walked out alone |
That selfsame troop of gentlemen |
Came riding o’er the downs, downs |
Riding o’er the downs |
«Who got the babe with thee, Bonnie Mae? |
Who got the babe in thy arms?» |
For shame she blushed and aye, she said |
«Oh I’ve a good man of my own» |
«You lie, you lie, you bonny, bonny Mae |
So loud I hear you lie |
Remember the misty, murky night |
I lay in the fold with thee, with thee |
I lay in the fold with thee |
Now he’s lighted off his berry-brown steed |
He’s set the fair Mae on |
«Go call out your fold, good father, yourself |
She’ll ne’er call them again, again |
She’ll ne’er call them again» |
For he’s the Lord of Achentrioch |
With fifty plough and three |
And he’s taken away the bonniest lass |
In all the south country, country |
In all the south country |