| Bonnie Mae a-shepherding has gone
 | 
| To call the sheep to the fold
 | 
| And aye, as she sang, her bonny voice, it rang
 | 
| Right over the tops of the downs, downs
 | 
| Over the tops of the downs
 | 
| There came a troop of gentlemen
 | 
| As they were riding by
 | 
| And one of them has lighted down
 | 
| And he’s asked of her the way, the way
 | 
| He’s asked of her the way
 | 
| «Ride on, ride on, you rank riders
 | 
| Your steeds are stout and strong
 | 
| For it’s out of the fold I will not go
 | 
| For fear you’ll do me wrong, wrong
 | 
| Fear you’ll do me wrong»
 | 
| Now he’s taken her by the middle jip
 | 
| And by the green gown sleeve
 | 
| And there he’s had his will of her
 | 
| And he’s asked of her no leave, no leave
 | 
| He’s asked of her no leave
 | 
| «Oh I’ve ridden east and I’ve ridden west
 | 
| And I’ve ridden o’er the downs
 | 
| But the bonniest lass that ever I saw
 | 
| Is calling her sheep to the fold»
 | 
| She has taken the milk pail on her head
 | 
| And she’s gone lingering home
 | 
| And all her father said to her
 | 
| Was, «Daughter, you’ve done me wrong, wrong
 | 
| Daughter, you’ve done me wrong»
 | 
| Now twenty weeks were gone and past
 | 
| Twenty weeks and three
 | 
| And the lassie began to fret and to frown
 | 
| And to long for his twinkling eye, bright eye
 | 
| Long for his twinkling eye
 | 
| Now it fell on a day, and a bonny summer’s day
 | 
| For she walked out alone
 | 
| That selfsame troop of gentlemen
 | 
| Came riding o’er the downs, downs
 | 
| Riding o’er the downs
 | 
| «Who got the babe with thee, Bonnie Mae?
 | 
| Who got the babe in thy arms?»
 | 
| For shame she blushed and aye, she said
 | 
| «Oh I’ve a good man of my own»
 | 
| «You lie, you lie, you bonny, bonny Mae
 | 
| So loud I hear you lie
 | 
| Remember the misty, murky night
 | 
| I lay in the fold with thee, with thee
 | 
| I lay in the fold with thee
 | 
| Now he’s lighted off his berry-brown steed
 | 
| He’s set the fair Mae on
 | 
| «Go call out your fold, good father, yourself
 | 
| She’ll ne’er call them again, again
 | 
| She’ll ne’er call them again»
 | 
| For he’s the Lord of Achentrioch
 | 
| With fifty plough and three
 | 
| And he’s taken away the bonniest lass
 | 
| In all the south country, country
 | 
| In all the south country |