Oh, as I roved out one morning I met a buxom lass,
She was going to the dairy and she kept a field of grass,
It grew below two mountains and down by a rising spring.
She hired me to cut it down while the birds did sweetly sing.
I said, "My pretty fair maid, what wages do you give?
Mowing is hard labor and it's far from here I live."
She said, "If you do please me, I solemnly do swear,
I'll give you a crown an acre and plenty of strong beer."
I said, "My pretty fair maid, I like your wages well,
And if I mow your meadow down, you shall say it is done well.
My sythe is in good order and lately has been honed,
My buxom lass, I'll cut your grass close unto the ground."
With courage like a lion, I entered in the field,
I'll mow the meadow down now before that I do yield.
But before I'd mowed a rood of ground my sythe it bent and broke.
She said, "My man, you must give in. You're tired of your work."
I said, "My handsome fair maid do not on me frown,
For, if I stay the summer through, I still can't mow it down.
Since it is such pleasant weather there bears such crops of grass
And it's watered by a spring below which makes it grow so fast.
She said, "My man, you must give in for energy you lack.
For mowing is hard labor and weakening to the back.
Yes, mowing is hard labor and you must it forsake.
But round my little meadow you may use your rake."
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