THERE CAME three merry men from south, west, and north,
    Ever more sing the roundelay;
To win the Widow of Wycombe forth,
    And where was the widow might say them nay?

The first was a knight, and from Tynedale he came,
    Ever more sing the roundelay;
And his fathers, God save us, were men of great fame,
    And where was the widow might say him nay?

Of his father the laird, of his uncle the squire,
    He boasted in rhyme and in roundelay;
She bade him go bask by his sea-coal fire,
    For she was the widow would say him nay.

The next that came forth, swore by blood and by nails,
    Merrily sing the roundelay;
Hur’s a gentleman, God wot, and hur’s lineage was of Wales,
    And where was the widow might say him nay?

Sir David ap Morgan ap Griffith ap Hugh
    Ap Tudor ap Rhice, quoth his roundelay
She said that one widow for so many was too few,
    And she bade the Welshman wend his way.

But then next came a yeoman, a yeoman of Kent,
    Jollily singing his roundelay;
He spoke to the widow of living and rent,
    And where was the widow could say him nay?

So the knight and the squire were both left in the mire,
    There for to sing their roundelay;
For a yeoman of Kent, with his yearly rent,
    There never was a widow could say him nay.