O Polly dear, O Polly dear,
The rout has now begun
And we must march away
At the beating of the drum:
Go dress yourself all in your best
And come along with me,
I'll take you to the cruel wars
In High Germany.

O Harry, dear Harry,
You mind what I do say,
My feet they are so tender
I cannot march away,
And besides, my dearest Harry,
Although I'm in love with thee.
I am not fit for cruel wars
In High Germany.

I'll buy you a horse, my Love,
And on it you shall ride,
And all of my delight shall be
Riding by your side;
We'll call at ev'ry ale house,
And drink when we are dry,
So quickly on the road, my Love,
We'll marry by and by.

O cursed were the cruel wars
That ever they should rise
And out of merry England
Press many a lad likewise!
They press'd young Harry from me,
Likewise my brothers three,
And sent them to the cruel wars
In High Germany.

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