THE AMERICANS HAVE STOLEN MY TRUE LOVE AWAY
[Trad. arr. E. Carthy, E. Boyd, S. Rose]
The Americans have stolen my true love away
And I in old England no longer can stay
I will cross the briny ocean all on my sad breast
To find out my true love who I do love best
And when I have found him, my joy and delight
I'll be constant unto him by day and by night
I will always prove as constant as a true turtle dove
And I never will in no time prove false to my love
When meeting is a pleasure but parting's a grief
And an inconstant lover is worse than a thief
For a thief he will but rob you, take all that you have
But an inconstant lover brings you to the grave
The grave it will rot you and bring you to dust
There is not one in twenty pretty ladies can trust
For they'll kiss you and court you and swear they'll prove true
And the very next morning they will bid you adieu
Come all you pretty maidens wherever you be
Don't settle your mind on yon sycamore tree
For the leaves they will wither and the branches will die
And you'll be forsaken, you won't know not for why.
