Tarry trowsers

One fine morning as I was walking,

The weather being bright and clear,

I overheard a tender mother,

Talking to her daughter dear.

"Daughter, I would have you marry,

No longer lead a single life."

"O no," said she, "I'd rather tarry,

For my jolly sailor bright."

"Sailors they are given to roving,

Into foreign parts they go;

Then they leave you broken-hearted,

Full of sorrow, grief and woe."

"Mother, would you have me wed a farmer,

Take from me my heart's delight!

Give me the lad whose tarry tarry trowsers

Shine to my eyes like diamonds bright."