It's early one morning I tripp'd o'er yon sands. I met my love Betsy. I took her by the hand. Her looks they were surly. She bid me begone. She was engaged with another young man.
I panted. I trembled. I walked by her side. I oftentimes asked her if she'd be my bride, But her looks they were surly. She bid me begone. She said that I dallied about her too long.
Then a house for pretty Betsy I soon did prepare, And flourish'd* well with housekeeping care, And fine promises to her I did show. She told me I lost her by courting too slow.
I stopp'd at her door till the clock had struck two. She oftentimes told me those hours I'd rue. I cast my eyes down in yon valleys below, Where I lost my poor Betsy by courting too slow.
All young men that a-courting does go, I'd have you take warning and not court too slow. You may kiss them and court them and call them also, And still you may lose them by courting too slow.