Lovely Joan

A fine young man it was indeed

Mounted on his milk-white steed

He rode, he rode, himself all alone

Until he came to lovely Joan

"Good morning to you, my pretty little maid"

"And twice good morning, sir," she said

He gave her the wink, she rolled her eyes

Said he to himself, "I'll be there by and by"

"Don't you think there pooks of hay

A pretty little place for us to play?

Follow me like a sweet young thing

And I'll give you my golden ring"

He's taken off his ring of gold

"My pretty little miss, do this behold

I'd freely give it for your maidenhead"

Her cheeks, they blushed like roses red

"Give me the ring into my hand

And I will neither stay nor stand

It would do more good to me

Than twenty maidenheads," said she

But as he made for the pooks of hay

She leapt on his horse and tore away

He called, he called, but all in vain

Young Joan, she never looked back again

She did not think herself quite safe

Until she reached her true love's gate

She robbed the lord of his horse and his ring

And left him to rage in the meadows green