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No sheep on the mountain nor boat on the lake |
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No coin in my coffer to keep me awake |
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Nor corn in my garner, nor fruit on my tree, |
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Yet the Maid of |
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Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me. |
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No sheep on the mountain nor goats, |
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No horses to offer nor boats, |
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Only hens |
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I have by me, they are one, two and three, |
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Yet the Maid of |
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Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me. |
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Rich Owen will tell you, with eyes full of scorn, |
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Threadbare is my coat and my hosen are torn. |
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Scoff on, my rich |
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Owen, for faint is thy glee |
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When the Maid of |
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Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me. |
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CHORUS The farmer rides proudly to market and fair |
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Whilst the clerk at the ale house still claims the great chair, |
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But of all our proud fellows, oh the proudest |
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I'll be, When the |
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Maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me. |
