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My Dear Mary Anne
Oh fare thee well my dear Mary Anne. Our days have all gone by. Spring is a-comin' and soon I'll be gone, but I'll come back. Don't you cry, my dear Mary Anne.
Oh don't you see the pretty turtle dove that flies from pine to pine? Crying for its own true love the way I cry for mine, my dear Mary Anne.
A lobster dies in a boiling pot. Oh, pity, the blue fish too. Yet they're quickly gone and they suffer not like the ache I bear for you, my dear Mary Anne.
Oh fare thee well my dear Mary Anne. Our days have all gone by. Spring is a-comin' and soon I'll be gone, but I'll come back. Don't you cry, my dear Mary Anne.
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