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Words: Ireland and England, 19th century.
Music: Collected from Sussex.

    One night upon my rambles two miles below Fermoy
    I met a farmer's daughter all on the mountains high.
    I said, My pretty fair maid your beauty shines so clear
    All on these lonesome mountains, I'm glad to meet you here.

    She said, Kind sir be civil, my company forsake,
    For in my own opinion I fear you are a rake.
    And if my parents they should know, my life they would destroy
    For keeping of your company all on the mountains high.

    He said, My dear I am no rake brought up in Venus' train,
    But I'm seeking for concealment all on the lonesome plain.
    Your beauty so enticed me I could not pass it by,
    So it's with my gun I'll guard you, all on the mountain high.

    Her cherry cheek and ruby lips they lost their former dye.
    She fainted in his arms there all on the mountain high.
    They hadn't kissed but once or twice till she came to again,
    With that she kindly asked him, Pray tell to me your name.

    If by chance you look for me perhaps you'll not me find,
    For I'll be in my castle - enquire for Reynardine.
    Sun and dark she followed him, his teeth did brightly shine,
    And he led her over the mountains, that sly, bold Reynardine.

         Reynardine . . . . . . . . . . to rhyme with: shine.
         Reynardine was reputed to be able to turn into a fox,
         a sort of werewolf legend.

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