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there was a lady who lived in york
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she proved a child by her own fathers clock
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she leaned her back against a thorn
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and there she had her baby born
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she pulled out her weeping knife
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and she took that sweet babes life
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she wiped the blade all on the grass
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but the harder she wiped the blood ran fast
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she washed her hands all in the stream
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thinking to turn a maid again
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as she was walking down her fathers hall
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she saw three babies a playing at the ball
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one dressed in silk the other in satin
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the other as naked as ever was born
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all little babies if you were mine
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I'd dress you in silk and satin so fine
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oh mother dear I once was dying
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you neither dress me in clothes so fine
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the coldest clay it was my bed
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the green grass was my coverlet
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all my fine babes what will become of me
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you'll be seven long years a bud in a tree
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seven long years the tongue of a bell
Em G D Em
seven long years a porter in hell
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