The Lass from the Low Countree

Oh, he was a lord of high degree

And she was a lass from the low countree

But she loved his lordship so tenderly.

Oh sorrow, sing sorrow

Now she sleeps in the valley where the wild flowers nod

And no one knows she loved him but herself and God

One morn when the sun was on the mead

He passed by her door on a milk white steed

She smiled and she spoke, but he paid no heed

Oh sorrow, sing sorrow

Now she sleeps in the valley where the wild flowers nod

And no one knows she loved him but herself and God

If you be a lass from the low countree

Don't love of no lord of high degree

They haint got a heart for sympathy

Oh sorrow, sing sorrow

Now she sleeps in the valley where the wild flowers nod

And no one knows she loved him but herself and God