Oh God! cried the father, then what have I done?
Thro’ gold, cursed gold, I have murdered my son,
Then with the same weapon himself did destroy,
Saying, thus I avenge thee, Oh, William, my boy!
Oh, Mercy! he cried and expired.
The mother soon died, and was laid in the tomb,
And Mary, a maniac wildly did roam,
All did her pity, though none could her save,
She was found dead and cold on her true lover’s grave,
On the grave of her lover so true.
THE BROKEN HEARTED GARDENER.
I’m a broken hearted Gardener, and don’t know what to do,
My love she is inconstant, and a fickle jade, too,
One smile from her lips will never be forgot,
It refreshes, like a shower from a watering pot.
Chorus.
Oh, Oh! she’s a fickle wild rose,
A damask, a cabbage, a young China Rose.
She’s my myrtle, my geranium,
My Sun flower, my sweet marjorum,
My honey suckle, my tulip, my violet,
My holy hock, my dahlia, my mignonette.
We grew up together like two apple trees,
And clung to each other like double sweet peas,
Now they’re going to trim her, and plant her in a pot,
And I’m left to wither, neglected and forgot.
She’s my snowdrop, my ranunculus,
My hyacinth, my gilliflower, my polyanthus,
My heart’s ease, my pink, water lily,
My buttercup, my daisy, my daffydown dilly.