No house in the village could stow them,
We were crowded with gallants so gay,
So deck'd out, you scarcely could know them,
       All booted in costly array.
The grass was trod down in our meadows,
       It never grew up into hay,
The lovers grew meagre as shadows,
       Before the fair maid went away.
Woo'd and carried away, woo  and carried away,
The pride and the boast of the parish
       Is gone and married away.

But if Harry had known her as I do,
How her youth has been trifled away,
Without knitting,   or baking, or brewing,
       Or spinning, or making of hay:
Her dress was her sole occupation,
       And when that is taken away,
She will quickly wear out of the fashion,
       When drest in plain garments of grey.
Woo'd and carried away, woo'd and carried away,
The buxom fine toast of the parish
       Is gone and married away.