She had traced the road by asking—she had learnt the way to go;
She had found the famous meadow—it was wrapt in cruel snow;
Not a buttercup or daisy, not a single verdant blade
Showed its head above its prison. Then she knelt her down and prayed.
With her eyes upcast to heaven, down she sank upon the ground,
And she prayed to God to tell her where the roses might be found.
Then the cold blast numbed her senses, and her sight grew strangely dim;
And a sudden, awful tremor seemed to seize her every limb.
“Oh, a rose!” she moaned, “good Jesus—just a rose to take to Bill!”
And as she prayed a chariot came thundering down the hill;