Sabine Baring Gould collected The Mower....and than completely re-wrote it because of it's content...Frankly I don't know what the original is anymore...but I prefer to sing the first version below...

The Mower – Baring-Gould.

A mower in the month of June
With tarring scythe am I.
To left, to right, I sweep and smite,
Before the dew is dry.
The daisy and the buttercup
Before me bow the head,
What bloom-ed fair in summer air,
Lies withered, cold, and dead.

There’s one doth mow, full well I know,
That passeth through the land,
With scythe more keen, he mows the green,
And letteth little stand.
Me unforgot, he sought my plot
Where bloom-ed babies three,
And pretty wife, there with his knife
He shore them all from me.

At fall of e’en, when skies are green,
Above the sun’s decline,
I there behold blow flowers of gold,
And think those flowers are mine.
On scythe I stoop, in humble hope,
That mower’ll ease my pain.
In Eden sweet, I then shall greet
My pretty flowers again.

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A.L. Lloyd sings The Mower
As I went out one morning on the fourteenth of July
I met a maid and I asked her age and she gave me this reply:
“I have a little meadow, I've kept for you in store
And it's only due, I should tell you true, it never was mowed before.”
She said: “Me handsome young man, if a mower that you be,
I give you good employment, so come along with me.”
Well it was me good employment to wander up and down
With me tearing scythe all to contrive to mow her meadow down.
Now me courage being undaunted, I stepped out on the ground,
And with me tearing scythe I then did strive to mow her meadow down.
I mowed from nine till dinnertime, it was far beyond my skill,
I was obliged to yield and to quit the field and the grass was growing still.
Now the mower she kissed and did pretest, this fair maid bein' so young.
Her little eyes they glittered like to the rising sun.
She said: “I'll strive to sharpen your scythe, so set it in me hand,
And then perhaps you will return again to mow me meadow land.”

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The Kings of Calicutt sing The Buxom Lass
A labouring lad walk'd out one day and he met with a buxom lass,
Belonging to a dairyman, she had a field of grass,
It grew between two mountains at the foot of a running spring,
She hir'd him out to cut it down while the birds did sweetly sing.
He said, “My handsome fair maid, what wages will you give?
For mowing is hard labour unless your scythe be good.”
She says, “If you should please me well, as I am a lady clear,
I will give a crown an acre and plenty of strong beer.”
He said, “You handsome fair maid, I like your wages well,
And if that I should mow your grass you'll say it done well,
For my scythe is in good order and lately has been ground,
And so, bonny lass, I'll mow your grass till it's down unto the ground.”
With courage like a lion he entered in the field,
But before he had mowed one swathe of grass he was obliged to yield,
Before he had mowed one swathe of grass his scythe was bent and broke.
She said, “My handsome fair man, you're tired of your work.”
She said, “My handsome fair man, you're tired of your work,
Oh, mowing is hard labour and weakening to the back,
yes, mowing is hard labour and it you must forsake,
But around my little meadow, you may use your fork and rake.”
He said, “My handsome fair maid, pray do not on me frown,
For if I stayed the summer long I could not cut it down,
For it is such a pleasant place and grows such crops of grass,
For it is well-watered by the spring that makes it grow so fast.”