The Lass from the Low Countree
by John Jacob Niles
Oh, he was a
lord of high degree,
And she was a lass from the
Low Countree,
But she loved his
lordship so tenderly!
Oh,
sorrow, sing sorrow!
Now she sleeps in the valley where the wild flowers nod,
And no one knows she loved him but herself and
God.
One morn, when the sun was on the
mead,
He passed by her door on a
milkwhite steed;
She smiled and she spoke, but he paid no heed.
Oh, sorrow, sing sorrow!
Now she sleeps in the valley where the wild flowers nod,
And no one knows she loved him but herself and God.
If you be a lass from the Low Countree,
Don't love of no lord of
high degree;
They hain't got a heart for
sympathy.
Oh sorrow, sing sorrow!
Now she sleeps in the valley where the wild flowers nod,
And no one knows she loved him but herself and God.