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