Dabbling in the Dew Songtext / Lyric

O where are you going to, my pretty little dear,
With your red rosie cheeks, and your coal black hair?
I'm going a milking, kind sir, she answered me,
And it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair. Suppose I were to clothe you, my pretty little dear,
In a green silken gown and the amethyst rare?
O no, sir, O no, kind sir, she answered me,
For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair. Suppose I were to carry you, my pretty little dear,
In a chariot with horses, a grey gallant pair?
O no, sir, O no, kind sir, she answered me,
For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair.

Suppose I were to feast you, my pretty little dear,
With dainties on silver, the whole of the year?
O no, sir, O no, kind sir, she answered me,
For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair.

O, but London's a city, my pretty little dear,
And all men are gallant and brave that are there-
O no, sir, O no, kind sir, she answered me,
For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair.

O fine clothes and dainties and carriages so rare
Bring grey to the cheeks and silver to the hair.
What's a ring on the finger, if rings are round the eye?
But it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair.