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Martin Carthy
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Lovely Joan
A fine young man it was indeed,
Mounted on his milk-white steed.
He rode, he rode, and he rode all alone
Until he came to lovely Joan.
'Good morning to you, my pretty maid.'
And 'Twice good morning, sir,' she said.
He tipped her the wink, and she rolled her dark eye.
Says he to himself, 'I'll be there by and by.'
'Oh, don't you think these pooks of hay
A pretty place for us to play?
So come with me, me sweet young thing,
And I'll give you my golden ring.'
So he took off his ring of gold,
Says, 'Me pretty fair miss, do this behold.
Freely I'll give it for your maidenhead.'
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And her cheeks they blushed like the roses red.
'Come give that ring into my hand
And I will neither stay nor stand.
For your ring is worth much more to me
Than twenty maidenheads,' said she.
And as he made for the pooks of hay,
She leapt on his horse and tore away.
He called, he called, but he called in vain,
For Joan she ne'er looked back again.
Nor did she she think herself quite safe
Until she came to her true love's gate.
She'd robbed him of his horse and ring
And she left him to rage in the meadows green.
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