Lay still my fond shepherd and don't you rise yet
It's a fine dewy morning and besides, my love, it is wet
Oh let it be wet my love and ever so cold
I will rise, my fond Floro and away to my fold
Oh no, my bright Floro, it is no such thing
It's a bright sun a-shining and the lark is on the wing
Oh the lark in the morning she rises from her nest
And she mounts in the air with the dew around her breast
And like a pretty ploughboy she'll whistle and sing
And at night she will return to her own nest again
When the ploughboy has done all he's got for to do
He trips down to the meadows where the grass is all cut down.