I came to this country in 'forty-nine,
Saw many a lover but could not see mine;
I looked all around me, saw I was alone,
Only a poor soldier and along ways from home.
Farewell, my dear father, and dear mother, too,
I am going to ramble this wide country through;
And when I grow tired I'll sit down and pine
About pretty Sarah And wish she were mine.
My love she doth slight me because I am poor,
She says I'm not worthy to enter her door;
But of this she'll repent when she finds all is vain.
For love is tormenting-a heart-breaking pain.
If I were a merchant and could write a fine hand,
I'd indite her a letter that she'd understand;
Tell her that love for her does my heart overflow.
Ever thinking of Sarah wherever I go.
My love won't have me as I understand,
'Cause she wants some freeholder, and I have no land;
But I would maintain her with silver and gold.
And many a fine thing my love's house should hold.
If I were a lark and had wines and could fly, .
This night to my love's house I would draw nigh.
In some quiet nook dream of rapture untold,
If in my arms could I her fair form enfold.