Tarry Trowsers

One fine morning as I was walking,
The weather being bright and clear,
I overheard a tender mother,
Talking to her daughter dear.

"Daughter, I would have you marry,
No longer lead a single life."
"O no," said she, "I'd rather tarry,
For my jolly sailor bright."

"Sailors they are given to roving,
Into foreign parts they go;
Then they leave you broken-hearted,
Full of sorrow, grief and woe."

"Mother, would you have me wed a farmer,
Take from me my heart's delight!
Give me the lad whose tarry trowsers
Shine to my eyes like diamonds bright.