’Twas on a market day;
A Low Back’d Car she drove, and sat
Upon a truss of hay.
But when that hay was blooming grass,
And deck’d with flowers of spring,
No flowers were there that could compare
With the lovely girl I sing,
As she sat in the Low Back’d Car, the man at the turnpike bar,
Good-natured old soul, never ask’d for his toll,
But look’d after the Low Back’d Car.