The Pretty Ploughboy

As I was a-walking
One morning in spring
I heard a pretty ploughboy,
And so sweetly he did sing;

And as he was a-singing O
These words I heard him say,
"There's no life like the ploughboy's
In the sweet month of May.'

There's the lark in the morning
She will rise up from her nest,
And she'll mount the white air
With the dew all on her breast.

And with the pretty ploughboy O
She'll whistle and she'll sing
And at night she'll return
To her nest back again.
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