A-rovin' on a winter's night

And a-drinkin' good old wine,

Thinkin' about that pretty little girl,

That broke this heart of mine.

She is just like a bud of rose,

That blooms in the month of June.

Or like some musical instrument,

That's just been lately tuned.

Perhaps it's a trip to some foreign land,

A trip to France or Spain,

But if I should go ten thousand miles,

I'm a-comin' home again.

And it's who's a-gonna shoe your poor little feet,

Who's a-gonna glove your little hands?

Who's a-gonna kiss your sweet little lips,

Honey, who's a-gonna be your man?

I love you till the sea runs dry,

And the rocks all melt in the sun.

I love you till the day I die,

Though you will never be my own.

A-rovin' on a winter's night

And a-drinkin' good old wine,

Thinkin' about that pretty little girl,

That broke this heart of mine.