As I was a-wand’ring aemorning in spring,
I heard a young ploughman saesweetly to sing;
And as he was singin’, thirwords he did say, –
There’s naelife like the ploughman’s in the month o’sweet May.
The lav’rock in the morning she’ll rise fraeher nest,
And mount i’the airwi’ the dew on her breast,
And wi’the merry ploughman she’ll whistle and sing,
And at night she’ll return to her nest back again.