'Twas in the month of May, when flowers spring, When pretty lambkins play, and thrushes sing. When young men do resort To walk about in sport Not thinking any harm, at Crantock games.
Crantock and Newlyn men, all in one room, The first mark that was made, it proved my doom. My name is Willy Coombe, Just twenty, in my bloom; Just twenty in my bloom when I was shot.
'Twas by a musket ball so swift did fly Which pierced my body through, so I must die. My brother swift did ride; To Truro Town he hied. Alas! alack-a-day, my cruel lot!
The surgeon said 'twas o'er, none could me cure, Bleeding all night, great pains I did endure. Coroner and jury true My body well did view. And from this wound I die at Crantock games.
Father, your son is dead, your sorrow bear Mother, don't break your heart, O mother dear! Sister, don't cry nor grieve, It will not you relieve No warning was I giv'n when I was shot.
'Twas early I walked on a midsummer morning, The fields and the meadows were deckèd and gay, The small birds were singing, the woodlands a-ringing, 'Twas early in the morning, at breaking of day, I will play on my pipes, I will sing thee my lay! It is early in the morning, at breaking of day.
O hark! and O hark! to the nightingales wooing, The lark is aloft piping shrill in the air. In every green bower the turtle-doves cooing, The sun is just gleaming, arise up my fair! Arise, love, arise! none fairer I spie! Arise, love, arise! O why should I die?
Arise, love, arise! go and get your love posies, The fairest of flowers in garden that grows, Go gather me lilies, carnations and roses, I'll wear them with thoughts of the maiden I chose. I stand at thy door, pretty love, full of care, O why should I languish so long in despair?
O why love, O why, should I banished be from thee? O why should I see my own chosen no more? O why look your parents so slightingly on me? It is all for the rough ragged garments I wore, But dress me with flowers, I'm gay as a king, I'm glad as a bird, when my carol I sing.
Arise, love, arise! in song and in story, To rival thy beauty was never a may, I will play thee a tune on my pipes of ivory, It is early in the morning, at breaking of day, I will play on my pipes, I will sing thee my lay! It is early in the morning, at breaking of day.