How ever it should com to passe
That wee did part a sunder.

The driven snow, the rose so rare,
The glorious sunne above thee,
Can not with my Ginnee compare,
She was so wonderous lovely.

Her merry lookes, her forhead high,
Her hayre like golden-wyer,
Her hand and foote, her lipe or eye,
Would set a saint on fyre.

And for to give Giunee her due,
Thers no ill part about her;
The turtle-dove's not half so true;
Then whoe can live without her?

King Solomon, where ere he lay,
Did nere unbrace a kinder;
O! why should Ginnee gang away,
And I be left behind her?

Then will I search each place and roome
From London to Virginny,
From Dover-peere to Scanderoone,
But I will finde my Ginny.

But Ginny's turned back I feare,
When that I did not mind her;