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My love she was born in the north counterie,
Where hills and lofty mountains rise up from the sea,
She's the fairest young maiden that ever I did see,
She exceeds all the maids in the north counterie.

My love is as bright as a morning in May,
My love is as pure as the sweet new-mown hay;
I love her in my bosom's core and she fancies me;
We're the happiest pair in the north counterie.

My love is as sweet as the cinnamon tree;
She clings to me as close as the bark to the tree;
But the leaves they will wither and the roots will decay,
And fair maiden's beauty will soon wither away.