1 O Polly love, O Polly, the rout has now begun,
And we must be a-marching at the beating of the drum ; Go dress yourself all in your best and come along with me, I'll take you to the cruel wars in High Germany.
2 O Harry love, O Harry, you hearken what I say; My feet are all too tender, I cannot march away; Besides, my dearest Harry, though man and wife we be, How am I fit for cruel wars in High Germany ?
3 A horse I'll buy you, dapple grey, and on it you shall ride, And all my heart's delight will be a-trotting at your side;
We'll ride o'er moor and mountain high, and breathe the air so free, And jauntily we'll ride along in High Germany.
4 O no, my love, it may not be, I cannot with you ride, For I have here my children dear, at home I must abide,
But all my thoughts and many prayers shall be the while with thee As thou dost fight Old England's wars in High Germany.
5 O cursed are the cruel wars that ever they should rise, And out of merry England press many a lad likewise, They pressed my Harry from me, as all my brothers three, And sent them to the cruel wars in High Germany.