Tarry trowsers 

 One fine morning as I was walking,
 The weather being bright and clear,
 I overheard a tender mother,
 Talking to her daughter dear.

 "Daughter, I would have you marry,
 No longer lead a single life."
 "O no," said she, "I'd rather tarry,
 For my jolly sailor bright."

 "Sailors they are given to roving,
 Into foreign parts they go;
 Then they leave you broken-hearted,
 Full of sorrow, grief and woe."

 "Mother, would you have me wed a farmer,
 Take from me my heart's delight!
 Give me the lad whose tarry tarry trowsers
 Shine to my eyes like diamonds bright."