Early one morning, one morning in Spring, to hear the birds whistle, the nightingales sing, I met a fair maiden who sweetly did sing: “I’m going to be married next Monday morning.”.

-How old are you, my fair young maid? Here in this valley, this valley so green. How old are you, my fair young maid?” - I’m going to be sixteen next Monday morning.”

-“Well, sixteen years old, that’s too young for to marry. So take my advice five years longer to tarry. For marriage brings with troubles and sorrows begin, so put off your wedding for Monday morning.”

-“You talk like a mad man - a man with no skill. Five years I’ve been waiting against my own will, and now I/m determined to have my own way. And I’m going to be married next Monday morning”.

Next Monday morning, the bells (they) will ring, my true love will buy me a gay golden ring, also he buy me a new pretty gown, to wear at my wedding next Monday morning.

Next Monday night when I go to my bed, and I turn round to the man that I’ve wed. Around his middle my two arms I will fling, and I wish to my soul it was Monday morning.