Tom Pearse, Tom Pearse, lend me your grey

mare,

All along, down along, out along, lee;

For I want for to go to Widdicombe fair,

Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,

Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon,

Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all,"

Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all.

"And when shall I see again my grey mare?"

All along, &c.

"By Friday soon, or Saturday noon,"

Wi' Bill Brewer, &c.

Then Friday came, and Saturday noon,

All along, &c.

But Tom Pearses old mare hath not trotted

home,

Wi' Bill Brewer, &c.

So Tom Pearse he got up to the top o' the hill,

All along, &c.

And he see'd his old mare down a-making her will

Wi' Bill Brewer, &c.

So Tom Pearse's old mare, her took sick and died,

All along, &c.

And Tom he sat down on a stone, and he cried

Wi' Bill Brewer, &c.

And now that Tom Pearse's old grey mare is dead

All along, &c.

They all did agree that she should be buried

Wi' Bill Brewer, &c.

But this isn't the end o' this shocking affair,

All along, &c.

Nor, though they be dead, of the horrid career

Of Bill Brewer, &c.

When the wind whistles cold on the moor of a night,

All along, &c.

Tom Pearse's old mare doth appear, gashly white,

Wi' Bill Brewer, &c.

And all the long night be heard skirling and groans,

All along, down along, out along, lee;

From Tom Pearse's old mare in her rattling bones,

And from Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter

Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon,

Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all,

Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all.