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I wish I were a black-bird or thrush,
Singing my notes from bush to bush;
That all the world night plainly see,
I lov'd a man, and he lov'd not me.
Or was I but a little fly,
my love's bosom then would I lie,
When all the world was fast asleep,
In my love's bosom then would I creep.
My love he came late in the night,
Seeking for his sweet-hearts delight;
He ran up stairs, the door he broke,
And found his love all in a rope.
Then he went up and cut her down,
And in her bosom a note was found,
Wrote in shining letters so bright,
Enough a mortal's heart to break.
“Go dig my grave both wide and deep,
And cover it with a marble stone;
And in the middle a turtle dove,
To show the world that I dy'd for love.
'Tis not for gold that I lie here,
Nor yet for jewels, know my dear;
But it is for that sweet Irish boy,
That has caused my sad destiny.
