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. [Illustration] _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. I’m like a scarlet runner that has lost its stick, Or a cherry that’s left for the dickey to pick, Like a waterpot, I weep, like a paviour I sigh, Like a mushroom I’ll wither, like a cucumber, die. I’m like a humble bee that doesn’t know where to settle, And she’s a dandelion, and a stinging nettle, My heart’s like a beet root choked with chickweed, And my head’s like a pumpkin running to seed. I’m a great mind to make myself a felo-de-se, And finish all my woes on the branch of a tree: But I won’t, for I know at my kicking, you’d roar, And honour my death with a double encore. _BOXING DAY IN 1847._ OF all the days throughout the year, There was never one, I say, That could come up in former times, At all to Boxing Day. But in the windows now you’ll see, How shocking, I declare, Notice! recollect, no Christmas Boxes Will be given here. _Chorus._ In former times, how folks would spree, So lively, brisk and gay, Such jolly games there used to be Upon a Boxing Day. Some folks are mean, as may be seen, Who plenty have in store, And strive outright, with all their might, To trample on the poor. It was not so in former times, For every class together, Stroll to the Play, on Boxing Day, Like Birds of every feather.