As I was walking one morning in spring,
I heard a fair maiden most charmingly sing,
All under her cow, as she sat a-milking,
Saying, I shall be married, next Monday morning.
You fairest of all creatures, my eyes e’er beheld,
Oh! Where do you live love, or where do you dwell,
I dwell at the top of yon bonny brown hill,
I shall be fifteen years old next Monday morning.
Fifteen years old love, is too young to marry,
The other five years love, I’d have you to tarry,
And perhaps in the meantime love you might be sorry,
So put back your wedding, next Monday morning.
You talk like a man without reason or skill,
Five years I’ve been waiting against my will,
Now, I am resolved my mind to fulfil,
I wish that tomorrow was Monday morning.
On Saturday night it is all my care,
To powder my locks and curl my hair,
And my two pretty maidens to wait on me there,
To dance at my wedding next Monday morning.
My husband will buy me a guinea gold ring,
And at night he’ll give me a far better thing,
With two precious jewels he’ll be me adorning,
When I am his bride, on Monday morning.