The following text appears in The Forget Me Not Songster, New York: Nafis & Cornish, c 1844-49, 80-81.
On yonder green mountain there a castle doth stand,
All deck'd with green ivy from the top to the strand,
Fine arches, fine porches, and lime stone so bright,
'Tis a Pilot for sailors in a dark stormy night.
On the top of that mountain in verdure of green,
The finest of places that ever was seen,
For fishing, for fowling, for walking also,
And the finest of roses on this mountain did grow.
At the foot of this mountain where the tide ebbs and flows,
Ships from the East Indies to Madeira doth go,
Where the red flag is a flying, and the beating of drums,
Sweet instruments of music and the firing of guns.
It was one Monday morning as we sailed away,
The drums they did beat and sweet music did play,
For the most of them were married men which grieved my heart full sore,
For to think on Pretty Polly, the maid I adore.
Come all you little purling streams that run murmuring by,
Pray direct me to my love whereso'er she be,
For her eyes they invite me, but her tongue says no,
Some angel direct me to where I shall go.
But her mind being changed runs just like the tide,
She's like some ship on the ocean that is tost to and fro,
From the height of her promotion to the depths of sad wo,
If pretty Polly had proved constant I'd make her my bride.