H.M.S. Pinafore: Sorry Her Lot chords by Gilbert, Sullivan

SimplifiedD · Dsus4 · Abdim · A · Dm …

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D
Dsus4
Abdim
A
Dm
Gm
Edim
F
C
E
Bm
F#
G

Verse 1
D 
Dsus4 
D 
Abdim 
A 
Dm 
D 
Sorry, her Lord,
Dm 
who loves too well,
D 
Gm 
Heavy the heart that hopes but vainly,
Edim 
A 
Sad are the sighs that warn the spell,
Edim 
A 
Attert by eyes   that speak to blame me.
F 
C 
F 
C 
Sorry the love who loves to fail,
F 
E 
Heavy the heart that helps
A 
Dm 
but vainly.
D 
Dsus4 
D 
Bm 
A 
Heavy the sorrow   that bows the head,
D 
Bm 
F# 
When love is alive and hope is dead,
Bm 
G 
A 
D 
A 
E 
Abdim 
When love is alive and  hope
A 
D 
Dsus4 
D 
is dead.
Abdim 
A 
Dm 
D 
Dm 
Sad is the hour when sets the sun,
D 
Dark is the night to hearth's
G 
Gm 
poor daughters,
Edim 
A 
When   to the oak the wearied one
Edim 
A 
Flies from the empty waste of waters.
F 
C 
F 
C 
Sad is the hour when sets the sun,
F 
Edim 
E 
Dark is the night  to which
A 
E 
good -bye turns.
D 
Dsus4 
D 
Bm 
Heavy the sorrow      that bows the head
A 
D 
Bm 
F# 
When love is alive and hope is dead.
Bm 
G 
A 
F# 
Bm 
E 
When love is alive
Abdim 
A 
D 
Allein ist er.
My child, I grieve to see you are a prey
to melancholy.
You should look your best today,
for Sir Joseph Porter, K .C .B.,
will be here this afternoon
to claim your promised hand.
Ah, father,
your words cut me to the quick.
I can esteem,
reverence, venerate Sir Joseph,
for he is a great and good man,
but, oh, I cannot love him.
My heart is already given.
It is then as I feared. Given?
And to whom?
Not to some gilded lordling?
No, father,
the object of my love is no lordling.
O pity me, for he is but a common
sailor
on board your own ship. Impossible!
Yes, it is true, too true.
A 
A common sailor?
Oh, my!
I blush at the weakness
that allows me to cherish such a passion.
I hate myself when I think of the depth
to which I have stooped
in permitting myself to think tenderly
of one so ignobly born.
But I love him! I love him! I love him!
Come, my child, let us talk this over.
In a matter of the heart,
I would not coerce my daughter.
I attach but little value to rank or wealth,
D 
but the line must be drawn somewhere.
A man in that station
may be brave and worthy,
but at every step he would commit
solicisms
that society would never
pardon.
I have thought of this night
and day.
But fear not, father, I have a heart,
and therefore I love.
But I am your daughter,
and therefore I am proud.
Though I carry my love with me to the tomb,
he shall never, never know it.
You are my daughter after all.
But see, Sir Joseph Sparge approaches,
manned by twelve trusty oarsmen
and accompanied by
the admiring crowd
of sisters, cousins and aunts
that attend him wherever he goes.
Retire, my daughter, to your cabin.
Take this, his photograph, with you.
It may help to bring you
to a more reasonable frame of mind.
My own thoughtful father!