THIS maiden she is dead, is dead before her wedding-day.
They lay her in her shroud, her shroud as white as flowering may.
They bear her to the earth, the earth, while yet the dawn is grey.
They lay her all alone, alone down in the chilly clay.
They come back merry, merrily a-singing all the way.
"We too shall have our turn, our turn," a-singing glad and gay.
This maiden she is dead, is dead before her wedding-day.
They go to till the fields, the fields as they do every day.