As down the glen one Easter morn to a city fair rode I. There Armed lines of marching men in squadrons passed me by. No pipe did hum, no battle drum did sound its loud tattoo
Oh I am a merry ploughboy, And I plough the feilds all day, ′Till a sudden thought came to my mind, That I should roam away. For im tired of this civilian life,
Contentment of mind is not found in the city. For my mind is inclined for to ramble and dream. To a place where my heart has found greater fortune. And there′s where the small birds sing high on the mountain
Oh a family of bards. A travelling went. To distant lands. A singing sweet. With pipes and strings. And an open heart. Just to wish their brothers. The good life. Greensleeves was all our joy
Its the last Rose of Summer left blooming alone. All her lovely companions are faded and gone. No flower of her kindred, no rosebud is nigh. To reflect back her blushes or give sigh by sigh.
We are the bands of holly, We are here to make you jolly. Come along with us and see what we have made. Bring all the children with you, And all the older fosters -
Wir reisen in der Welt herum. Musik und Tanz das liegt uns im Blut. Was Heimweh nach zu Hause heißt. Versteh'n wir gut. Einst kamen wir hoch in den Bergen. In ein tal dem Himmel so nah
Arbres vous êtes les fleuves du ciel. Vos feuilles sont des vallées vos brindilles des ruisseaux. Les noeuds de vos branches des confluents de rivière. Vos troncs majestueux se jettent dans la terre