Over the moorlands gay and glad,
He piped the sweet day long,
He was only a little mountain lad,
She loved to hear his song.
She leaned from her window, weeping sad,
When he drove his flock away.
He was only a little mountain lad,
She watched for him each day.

Far from the gorse and babbling rills,
She went away one day.
He is alone upon the hills,
Piping his little lay.
And she has wooers at her feet,
And all is rich and rare;
He drives his flock by her window seat;
But she is not there, not there!

Out on the moorlands lone and sad,
He weeps for the days that were,
He is only a little mountain lad,
[She]1 is a lady fair!
But there steals a hand into his so glad,
She will be his little bride,
He is only a little mountain lad,
But she loves none else beside.