A-rovin' on a winter's night And a-drinkin' good old wine, Thinkin' about that pretty little girl, That broke this heart of mine. She is just like a bud of rose, That blooms in the month of June. Or like some musical instrument, That's just been lately tuned. Perhaps it's a trip to some foreign land, A trip to France or Spain, But if I should go ten thousand miles, I'm a-comin' home again. And it's who's a-gonna shoe your poor little feet, Who's a-gonna glove your little hands? Who's a-gonna kiss your sweet little lips, Honey, who's a-gonna be your man? I love you till the sea runs dry, And the rocks all melt in the sun. I love you till the day I die, Though you will never be my own.