Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce lend me your 
 grey mare, 
All along down along, out long lea, 
For I want to go to Widdicombe Fair 
With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter 
 Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Widdon, 
 Harry Hawke, 
Old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all.
And when shall I see again my grey mare 
By Friday soon or Saturday noon.
Then Friday came and Saturday noon, 
But Tom Pearce's old mare has not 
 trotted home.
So Tom Pearce he got up to the top of 
 the hill, 
And he seed his old mare down a-making 
 her will.
So Tom Pearce's old grey mare took sick 
 and died, 
And Tom he sat down on a stone and he 
 cried.
But this isn't the end of this shocking 
 affair, 
Nor though they be dead of the horrid 
 career.
When the wind whistles cold on the moor 
 of a night, 
Tom Pearce's old mare doth appear 
 ghastly white.
And all the long night be heard 
 skirling the groans, 
From Tom Pearce's old mare and her 
 rattling bones.