An old Irish tune. And a warning to all young women.

The Month of January

It was in the month of January, the hills were clad in snow As over hills and valleys, my true love she did go It was there she spied a pretty fair maid, with a salt tear in her eye She had a baby in her arms, and bitter she did cry

"Oh, cruel was my father to bar the door on me And cruel was my mother, this dreadful crime to see Cruel was my own true love to change his mind for gold Cruel was that winter's night that pierced my heart with cold"

Oh, the taller that the palm tree grows, the sweeter is the bark And the fairer that a young man speaks, the falser is his heart He will kiss you and embrace you, 'till he thinks he has you won Then he'll go away and leave you all for some other one

So come all you pretty fair maids, a warning take by me And never try to build your nest on top of a high tree For the roots, they will all wither, and the branches all decay And the beauties of a false young man, will all soon fade away