Down in some lone valley, in a lonesome place,
Where the wild birds do whistle and their notes do increase
The thoughts of pretty Saro, I bid you adieu,
And I’ll dream of pretty Saro wherever I go.
If I were a poet and could write some fine hand,
I would write my love a letter that she’d understand
And send it by the waters where the island o’erflows,
And I’d think of pretty Saro wherever I go.
My love, she won’t have me, this I understand,
She wants a freeholder and I have no land.
I could not maintain her with silver and gold
and all of the fine things my love’s house can hold.
Farewell my dear mother, farewell father, too,
I’m going for to ramble this wide world all through,
And when I get weary, I’ll lie down and weep,
And I’ll dream of pretty Saro, wherever she be.