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?
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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.
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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.
|
|
-----------------
|
A-Rovin' On A Winter's Night
|
| Doc Watson |
