| A holiday, a holiday | 
| And the first one of the year | 
| Lord Donald’s wife came into the church | 
| The Gospel for to hear | 
| And when the meeting it was done | 
| She cast her eyes about | 
| And there she saw little Matty Groves | 
| Walking in the crowd | 
| Come home with me, little Matty Groves | 
| Come home with me tonight | 
| Come home with me, little Matty Groves | 
| And sleep with me 'til light | 
| Oh, I can’t come home, I won’t come home | 
| And sleep with you tonight | 
| By the rings on your fingers | 
| I can tell you are Lord Donald’s wife | 
| But if I am Lord Donald’s wife | 
| Lord Donald’s not at home | 
| He is out in the far cornfields | 
| Bringing the yearnings home | 
| And a servant who was standing by | 
| And hearing what was said | 
| He swore Lord Donald he would know | 
| Before the sun would set | 
| And in his hurry to carry the news | 
| He bent his breast and ran | 
| And when he came to the broad mill stream | 
| He took off his shoes and he swam | 
| Little Matty Groves, he lay down | 
| And took a little sleep | 
| When he awoke, Lord Donald | 
| Was standing at his feet | 
| Saying, «How do you like my feather bed | 
| And how do you like my sheets | 
| How do you like my lady | 
| Who lies in your arms asleep?» | 
| Oh, well, I like your feather bed | 
| And well, I like your sheets | 
| But better I like your lady gay | 
| Who lies in my arms asleep | 
| «Well, get up, get up», Lord Donald cried | 
| «Get up as quick as you can | 
| It’ll never be said in fair England | 
| I slew a naked man» | 
| Oh, I can’t get up, I won’t get up | 
| I can’t get up for my life | 
| For you have two long beaten swords | 
| And I not a pocket knife | 
| Well, it’s true I have two beaten swords | 
| And they cost me deep in the purse | 
| But you will have the better of them | 
| And I will have the worse | 
| And you will strike the very first blow | 
| And strike it like a man | 
| I will strike the very next blow | 
| And I’ll kill you if I can | 
| So Matty struck the very first blow | 
| And he hurt Lord Donald sore | 
| Lord Donald struck the very next blow | 
| And Matty struck no more | 
| And then Lord Donald he took his wife | 
| And he sat her on his knee | 
| Saying, «Who do you like the best of us | 
| Matty Groves or me?» | 
| And then up spoke his own dear wife | 
| Never heard to speak so free | 
| «I'd rather a kiss from dead Matty’s lips | 
| Than you or your finery» | 
| Lord Donald, he jumped up | 
| And loudly he did bawl | 
| He struck his wife right through the heart | 
| And pinned her against the wall | 
| «A grave, a grave», Lord Donald cried | 
| «To put these lovers in | 
| But bury my lady at the top | 
| For she was of noble kin» |