In Pembrokeshire where I was born
Were many maidens dwelling,
But all of them were quite forlorn
For love of Thomas Allen.
All in the merry month of May,
When green buds they were swelling,
Some twenty-six on their death-beds lay,
For love of Thomas Allen.
Then slowly slowly Tom rode round,
And one by one did eye 'em;
But all that Tom could find to say
Was:—These poor girls are dying.
And so in course of time they died,
And all of them were buried,
Excepting one, and she survived,
And that one Thomas married.