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Posted by IONA English folk correspondent, 8th Apr 2006
The lark in the morn as she rises from her nest
Mounts thro' the white air, with the dew on her breast,
'Long with the pretty ploughboy, she'll whistle and she'll sing,
And return to her nest in the cool evening,
And return to her nest in the cool evening.
One morning she mounted so cherrily on high,
She look'd round about her and at the dark sky,
And loudly she was singing and twittering her lay,
There's no life like the ploughboy's in the sweet month of May.
There's no life, etc.
When the day's work is ended and over, he'll go
To fair or to market to buy him a bow,
And whistle as he walks, O! and shrilly too will sing,
There's no life like the ploughboy's all in merry spring.
There's no life like the ploughboy's in the sweet month of May.
There's no life, etc.
Good luck to the ploughboy wherever he may be,
A fair pretty maiden he'll take on his knee,
He'll drink the nut-brown ale, and this song the lad will sing,
Oh! the ploughboy is happier than noble or king.
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