An’ the leaves are crushed an’ crumpled up
With crinkled buds atween.
They’ve got a sorto’ musty smell
That almost makes me sick,
For they ’mind me o’ the days in June
We got ’m ’long the crick.
They wan’t no style about them tho’,
Like city flowers is—
They’s jist the good ol’-time Wil’-Rose
That God set out fer His.