Tekster:
Sarah Brightman The Trees They Grow So High

The trees they grow so high and the leaves they do grow green, And many a cold winter's night my love and I have seen. Of a cold winter's night, my love

as the sun was rising, I heard a maid singing in the valley below; -O don't deceive me, O do not leave me. How could you use a poor maiden so? O gay is

how soon we should part. Still grows the bright sunshine o'er valley and mountain, Still warbles the blackbird his note from the tree; Still trembles

: How sweet the answer Echo makes To music at night; When, rous'd by lute or horn, she wakes, And faw away, o'er lawns and lakes, Goes answering light

: Come you not from Newcastle? Come you not there away? O met you not my true love, Riding on a bonny bay? Why should not I love my love? Why should

and the flowers. Quickly, lend me your shuttle; I am awaited elsewhere, you know. Here is the Spring passing by; -Good day, painter, good day Your labouring hand grows

gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song! The warm lay of love and the light tone of gladness Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But so

: O can ye sew cushions and can ye sew sheets, And can ye sing ballulow when the bairn greets? And hie and baw, birdie, and hie and baw, lamb, And hee

: Oliver Cromwell lay buried and dead, Hee-haw, buried and dead, There grew an old apple-tree over his head, Hee-haw, over his head. The apples were