O where ha you been, Lord Randall, my son?
And where ha you been, my handsome young man?

I ha been at the greenwood; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.

And wha met ye there, Lord Randall, my son?
And wha met ye there, my handsome young man?

I met wi my true-love; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.

And what did she give you, Lord Randall, my son?
And what did she give you, my handsome young man?

Eels fried in a pan; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.

And what gat your leavins, Lord Randall, my son?
And what gat your leavins, my handsome young man?

My hawks and my hounds; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.

And what becam of them, Lord Randall, my son?
And what becam of them, my handsome young man?

They stretched their legs out and died; mother mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.

O I fear you are poisoned, Lord Randall, my son!
I fear you are poisoned, my handsome young man!

O yes, I am poisoned; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart, and fain wad lie down.

What d’ye leave to your mother, Lord Randall, my son?
What d’ye leave to your mother, my handsome young man?

My gold and my silver; mother mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart, an I fain wad lie down.

What d’ye leave to your brother, Lord Randall, my son?
What d’ye leave to your brother, my handsome young man?

My houses and my lands; mother mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.

What d’ye leave to your true-love, Lord Randall, my son?
What d’ye leave to your true-love, my handsome young man?

I leave her hell and fire; mother mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.

The Spring, a maiden beautiful and pure, 
Wearies of earth, and leaves the happy lea; 
The stormy winds grow weary of the sea; 
The sailor lad grows weary of the shore; 
Tunes that charmed once fail, sometime, to allure. 
Weary we grow of grief, or too much glee; 
We weary captive, and we weary free: 
Suns set, moons rise, the stars do not endure. 

Let this be as it is; — but this I know. 
Though life, grown weary, parts at length from me; 
Though joy remembered turns to deepest woe; 
Yea, though as one our lives may never be, — 
Through life, in death, where none may reap or sow, 
My love, O sweet, shall weary not of thee.