The lark in the morning, she rises off her nest, goes home in the evening with the dew all on her breast. And like the jolly ploughboy, she whistles and she sings, goes home in the evening with the dew all on her wings.
Roger the ploughboy, he is a dashing blade, goes whistling and singing over yonder leafy shade. He met with pretty Susan, beautiful and fair, far more enchanting than the birds all in the air. One evening coming home from the rakes of he town, the meadow'd been all green and the grass had been cut down. As I should chance to tumble all in the new-mown hay, "it's kiss me now or never love," this maiden she did say.
When twenty long weeks they were over and were past, her mommy chanced to notice how she thickened round the waist. "It was the handsome ploughboy," this maiden she did say, "he caused for me to tumble, all in the new-mown hay."
So here's to all you ploughboys, wherever you may be, that likes to have a bonnie-lass a-sitting on his knee. With a jug of good strong porter, you'll whistle and you'll sing, for a ploughboy is as happy as a prince or a king.