The wretch who made me pass away;
Maybe she’ll wish I wasn’t dead.
In vain! for still my dreadful ghost,
Shall glare on her from a certain post.
To think how I my brain have racked
On lays for him. My stomach cramp;
My bended form; my broken back;
My blasted hopes; my wasted lamp.
Oh, then I long to be a ghost,
To hang around a certain post.