The Love Sick Maid

The winter it is past,
And the summer’s come at last,
And the small birds sing on every tree;
The hearts of those are glad,
Whilst mine is very sad,
Whilst my true love is absent from me.

I’ll put on my can of black,
And fringe about my neck,
And rings on my fingers I’ll wear;
And this I’ll undertake,
For my true lover’s sake,
For he rides at the Curragh of Kildare.

A livery I’ll wear,
And I’ll comb down my hair,
And I’ll dress in the velvet so green;
Straightways I will repair
To the Curragh of Kildare,
And ’tis there I will get tidings of him.

With patience she did wait,
Till the ran for the plate,
In thinking young Johnston to see;
But fortune proved unkind
To that sweetheart of mine,
For he’s gone to Lurgan for me.

I should not think it strange,
The wide world for to range,
If I could obtain my heart’s delight;
But here in Cupid’s chains
I’m obliged to remain,
Whilst in tears do I spend the whole night.

My love is like the sun,
That in the firmament doth run,
Which is always constant and true;
But yours is like the moon,
That doth wander up and down,
And in every month it’s new.

All you that are in love,
And cannot it remove,
For you pitied are by me;
Experience makes me know
That you heart is full of woe,
Since my true love is absent from me.

Farewell, my joy and heart,
Since you and I must part,
You are the fairest that e’er I did see;
And I never do design
For to alter my mind
Although you are below my degree.