(Trad)A fine young man it was indeed
Mounted on his milk-white steed
He rode, he rode and he rode all alone
Until he came to lovely Joan
Good morning to you, my pretty maid
And twice good morning, sir, she said
He tipped her the wink and she rolled a dark eye
Says he to himself, I'll be there by and by
Oh don't you think these pooks of hay
A pretty place for us to play
So come with me, my sweet young thing
And I'll give to you my golden ring
So he took off his ring of gold
Says, My pretty fair miss, do this behold
Freely I'll give it for your maidenhead
And her cheeks they blushed like the roses red
Come give that ring into my hand
And I will neither stay nor stand
For your ring is worth much more to me
Than twenty maidenheads, said she
And as he made for the pooks of hay
She leapt on his horse and she tore away
He called, he called, but he called in vain
For Joan, she ne'er looked back again
Nor did she think herself quite safe
Until she came to her true love's gate
She'd robbed him of his horse and ring
And she'd left him to rage in the meadows green
(as sung by Martin Carthy)