I
THE old grey mother she thrummed on her knee:
_There is a rose that’s ready_;
And which of the handsome young men shall it be?
_There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping_.
My daughter, come hither, come hither to me:
_There is a rose that’s ready_;
Come, point me your finger on him that you see:
_There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping_.
O mother, my mother, it never can be:
_There is a rose that’s ready_;
For I shall bring shame on the man marries me:
_There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping_.
Now let your tongue be deep as the sea:
_There is a rose that’s ready_;
And the man’ll jump for you, right briskly will he:
_There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping_.
Tall Margaret wept bitterly:
_There is a rose that’s ready_;
And as her parent bade did she:
_There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping_.
O the handsome young man dropped down on his knee:
_There is a rose that’s ready_;
Pale Margaret gave him her hand, woe’s me!
_There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping_.