Communicated by Mr. G.C. Mahon, of Ann Arbor, Michigan,
as sung by a laborer, at Tyrrelspass, West Meath, Ireland, about 1830.
| 1 |
'Oh who'll comb my yellow locks,
With the brown berry comb?
And who'll be the child's father,
Until Gregory comes home?' |
| 2 |
'OH . . . . .
And God will be the child's father,
Until Gregory comes home.'
* * * * * |
| 3 |
'The dew wets my yellow locks,
The rain wets my skin,
The babe's cold in my arms,
Oh Gregory, let me in!' |
| 4 |
'Oh if you be the lass of Aughrim,
As I suppose you not to be,
Come tell me the last token
Between you and me.'
The dew wets my skin. |
| 5 |
'Oh Gregory, don't you remember
One night on the hill,
When we swapped rings off each other's hands,
Sorely against my will?'
Mine was of the beaten gold,
Yours was but black tin.'
The dew wets my skin. |
| 6 |
'Oh if you be the lass of aughrim,
As I suppose you not to be,
Come tell me the last token
Between you and me.'
The dew wets my skin. |
| 7 |
'Oh Gregory don't you remember
One night on the hill,
When we swapped smocks off each other's backs,
Sorely against my will?
Mine was of the holland fine,
Yours was but Scotch cloth.'
The dew wets my skin. |
| 8 |
'Oh if you be the lass of Aughrim,
As I suppose you not to be,
Come tell me the last token
Between you and me.'
The dew wets my skin. |
| 9 |
'Oh Gregory, don't you remember,
In my father's hall,
When you had your will of me?
And that was worse than all.'
. . . . .
. . . . .
The dew wets my skin. |
