The trees, they grow high and the leaves, they do grow green many is the time my true love I’ve seen many an hour I watched him all alone he’s young but he’s daily growing Father, dear father, you’ve done me great wrong you have married me to a boy who is too young I am twice twelve and he is bold fourteen he’s young but he’s daily growing Daughter, dear daughter, I’ve done you no wrong I have married you to a great lord’s son and he will be a man for you when I am dead and gone he’s young but he’s daily growing Father, dear father, if you see fit we’ll send him to college for another year yet and tie a blue ribbon all around his head to let the maidens know that he’s married One day, I was looking o’er my father’s castle wall I spied all the boys playing with the ball and my own true love he was the flower of them all he’s young but he’s daily growing And so early in the morning at the dawning of the day they went into a hayfield for to have some sport and play and what they did there out she never would declare but she never more complained of his growing At the age of fourteen, he was a married man at the age of fifteen, the father of my son at the age of sixteen his grave, it was green and death had put an end to his growing I’ll buy my love some flannel, I’ll make my love a shroud and every stitch I put in it, the tears will flow down and every stich I put in it, the tears, they will flow cruel fate had put an end to his growing

I’ll tell me ma when I go home the boys won’t leave the girls alone they pull my hair, they stole my comb but that’s all right when I go home She is handsome, she is pretty, she is the belle of Dublin City she is counting one, two, three please won’t you tell me, who is she Albert Mooney says he loves her all the boys are fighting for her they knock at the door, they ring at the bell saying oh, my true love, are you well out she comes as white as snow rings on her fingers, bells on her toes Jenny Murray says she’ll die if she doesn’t get the fellow with the roving eye Let the wind and the rain and the hail go high and the snow come tumbling from the sky she’s as sweet as apple pie and she’ll get her own love by and by when she gets her lad of her own she won’t tell her ma when she goes home let them all come as they will it’s Albert Mooney she loves still