As I went down to London Town, One misty morning, early, I chanced to meet a fair, young maid A-pleading for her Geordie.
The judge then looked down on him, And said, "I'm sorry for thee. Thine own confession hath hanged thee. May the Lord have mercy on thee."
Come bridle me my milk-white steed, Come bridle me my pony, That I may ride to fair London Town, To plead for my Geordie.
Oh, Geordie stole no cow nor calf, And he never murdered any, But he stole sixteen of the King's white steeds, And sold them in Bohenny.