Monday Morning

Early one morning one morning in spring.

To hear the birds whistle.

The nightingale sing.

I met a fair maiden who sweetly did sing:

I'm going to be married next Monday morning.

How old are you my fair young maid?

Here in this valley, this valley so green.

How old are you my fair young maid?

I'm going to be sixteen next Monday morning.

Well sixteen years old.

That's too young for to marry.

So make my advice five years longer to tarry.

For marriage brings troubles and sorrows begin.

So put off your wedding for Monday morning.

You talk like a mad man, a man with no skill.

Two years I've been waiting against my own will.

And now I'm determined to have my own way.

And I'm going to be married next Monday morning.

And next Monday morning the bells they'll ring.

My true love will buy me a gay gold ring.

Also he'll buy me a new pretty gown.

To wear at my wedding next Monday morning.

Next Monday night when I go to my bed.

And I turn around to the man that I've wed.

Around his middle my two arms I'll fling.

And I wish to my soul it was Monday morning.