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 To your horse, to your horse my nobles all,

to your horse, let us be going,

This night we'll lodge in Drummond castle,

and to-morrow we'll march to London.

New this Lady has fallen sick,

and doctors we her dealing

But at length her heart did break,

and letters sent to London.

He took the letter in his hand,

and loud, loud was he laughing,

But before he read it to an end,

the tears did come down rapping.

To your horse, to your horse my nobles all,

to your hors, let's be going;

To your horse let us all go in black

and mourn for Peggy Irvine.

When he came to his own castle gate,

the Knight was weary weeping

Cheer up your heart you lord of the Boyne,

your lady is but sleeping.

Sleeping deary, sleeping dow,

I'm afraid she s o'er sound sleeping;

Its I had rather lost all the land, of the Boyne,

Before I would have lost Peggy Irvine.