A REFUGE FOR POETS WHO WRITE IN THE LYRIC TRADITION,
WITH RHYME AND METER, WITH OR WITHOUT MUSIC
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THE TREES THEY DO GROW HIGH
The trees they do grow high, and the leaves they do grow green.
Many is the time my true love I’ve seen.
Many an hour I’ve watched him all alone.
He’s young, but he’s daily growing.
Father, dear father, you’ve done me great wrong.
You’ve married me to a boy who is too young.
I am twice twelve, and he is but fourteen.
He’s young, but he’s daily growing.
Daughter, dear daughter, I’ve done you no wrong.
I’ve married you to a brave Lord’s son.
He’ll be a man to you when I am dead and gone.
He’s young, but he’s daily growing.
Father, dear father, if you see fit,
We’ll send my love to college for one year yet.
Tie the blue ribbons all around his head,
To let the ladies know that he’s married.
One day I was looking o’er my father’s castle wall,
Saw all the boys a-playing at the ball.
My own true love was the flower of them all.
He’s young, but he’s daily growing.
At the age of fourteen he was a married man.
Age of fifteen the father of a son.
Age of sixteen on his grave the cross was green.
Cruel death had put an end to his growing.
I’ll make my love a shroud of the finest Holland brown.
Every stitch I put in it, the tears come trickling down.
Once I had a true love, but now I’ve ne’er one,
But I’ll watch o’er his son while he’s growing.
Traditional English
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