A fine young man it was indeed
Mounted upon 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”
“Twice good morning, sir,” she said
He tipped her the wink, she rolled her eye
Said he to himself, “I'll be there by and by”

“Now, don't you think there pooks of hay
A pretty place for us to play?
So come with me like a sweet young thing
And I'll give you my golden ring”

Then he pulled 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
For that would be more use to me
Than twenty maidenheads,” said she

Then as he made for the pooks of hay
She leapt on his horse and she tore away
He called and called, but all in vain
For Joan she never looked back again
Nor did she think herself quite safe
Not till she came to her true love's gate
She's robbed the lord of his horse and ring
And left him to rage in the meadows green