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(learned during the 1950s in UC Berkeley Hiking Club)

(music to go here)

She was a lass from the low countree,
And he was a lord of high degree,
And she loved his lordship so tenderly,
    Sing sorrow, sing sorrow,
    Now she sleeps in the valley where the wild flowers nod,
    And nobody knows she loved him but herself and God.

One day when the sun was o'er the mead,
He passed her by, on a milk-white steed,
She smiled at him, but he paid no heed,
    Sing sorrow, sing sorrow...

If you're a lass from the low countree,
Don't love no lord of high degree,
He ain't got no heart, nor no sympathy,
    Sing sorrow, sing sorrow...

(from miriam berg's folksong collection)