Let the Wind Blow High or Low

One night when I was walking
Down by the riverside,
Gazing all around me,
When an Irish girl I spied.
Red and rosy were her cheeks,
Lovely coal black was her hair,
Costly were those lovely robes
This Irish girl did wear.

Her shoes were black,
Her stockings white,
All sprinkled with dew;
She wrung her hands and tore her hair,
Crying: ‘Alas, what shall I do?
I'm going home, I'm going home,
I am going home,’ said she.
‘Oh would you go a-roving
To slight your own Polly?

‘The very last time I saw my love
He seemed to be in pain,
With heartfelt grief and chilling woe
His heart it seemed near broke in twain.
There's many a man more true than he,
So why should I e'er complain?
Love it is a killing thing
Did you ever feel the pain.’

I wish I were a butterfly,
I would fly to my true love's breast;
I wish I were a linnet,
I would sing my love to rest;
I wish I were a nightingale,
I would sing to the morning clear;
I'll sit and sing for you, Polly,
The girl I love so dear.

I wish my love were red rosebud
Who in the garden grew,
And I to be the gardener
To her I ever would prove true.
There's not a month in all the year
But my love I would renew,
The lilies I would garnish,
Sweet William, thyme and rue.

I wish I were in Manchester
A-sitting on the grass
With a bottle of whisky in my hand
And upon my knee a lass.
I'd call for liquor merrily
And I would pay before I go,
I'll roll my lass all in the grass,
Let the wind blow high or low.
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