The Month of January

It was in the month of January, the fields were white with snow,
Where over hill and valley, my true love he did go,
It was there I spied a pretty fair maid with a salt tear in her eye,
She had a baby in her arms and bitterly she did cry.
Saying, “Cruel was my father who barred the door on me,
And cruel was my mother, this dreadful crime to see,
Cruel was my own sweetheart who changed his mind for gold,
And cruel was the wintery wind that pierced my heart with gold”.
For the taller that the pine tree grows the sweeter is the bark,
And the fairer that a young man speaks, the falser is his heart,
For they’ll kiss you and caress you ‘til they think they have you won,
Then they’ll go away and leave you all for some other one.
So come all my pretty fair maids a warning take of me,
And never try and build your nest on the top of a high tree,
For the green leaves they will wither and the branches will decay,
And the blushes of a false young man, too soon will fade away.