The Huntsman blew loud on his horn, blew loud on his horn And all that he blew it was lost and gone, was lost and gone Ta-ri-a hus sar-sah, Tira-la-la And all that he blew it was lost and gone Shall all my blowings be just forlorn... Far better were I no huntsman born... He cast his net the bush about... A nut brown damsel sprung quickly out... Oh nut brown damsel escape me not... I have great big hounds that will fetch thee hot... Thy great big hounds they will fetch me not... My high mighty leapings they know them not... Thy high mighty leapings they know full well... They know that today death thee must fell... Well if I die then I’ll be dead... O bury me deep ‘neath the roses red... And under the lilies and roses red... I’ll sleep for ever, in my last bed... And on her grave three lilies grew... A squire rode by and would pluck the few... O Squire forbear, let the lilies stand... They are for a fresh young huntsman’s hand...