A melancholy story, far too true; And soon the village to the pasture flew, Where, from the deepest hole the pond about, They dragged poor Jenny's lifeless body out, And took her home, where scarce an hour gone by She had been living like to you and I. I went with more, and kissed her for the last, And thought with tears on pleasures that were past; And, the last kindness left me then to do, I went, at milking, where the blossoms grew, And handfuls got of rose and lambtoe sweet, And put them with her in her winding-sheet. A wilful murder, jury made the crime; Nor parson 'lowed to pray, nor bell to chime; On the cross roads, far from her friends and kin, The usual law for their ungodly sin Who violent hands upon themselves have laid, Poor Jane's last bed unchristian-like was made; And there, like all whose last thoughts turn to heaven, She sleeps, and doubtless hoped to be forgiven. But, though I say't, for maids thus veigled in I think the wicked men deserve the sin; And sure enough we all at last shall see The treachery punished as it ought to be. For ere his wickedness pretended love, Jane, I'll be bound, was spotless as the dove, And's good a servant, still old folks allow, As ever scoured a pail or milked a cow; And ere he led her into ruin's way, As gay and buxom as a summer's day: The birds that ranted in the hedge-row boughs, As night and morning we have sought our cows, With yokes and buckets as she bounced along, Were often deafed to silence with her song. But now she's gone:--girls, shun deceitful men, The worst of stumbles ye can fall agen; Be deaf to them, and then, as twere, ye'll see Your pleasures safe as under lock and key. Throw not my words away, as many do; They're gold in value, though they're cheap to you. And husseys hearken, and be warned from this, If ye love mothers, never do amiss: Jane might love hers, but she forsook the plan To make her happy, when she thought of man. Poor tottering dame, it was too plainly known, Her daughter's dying hastened on her own, For from the day the tidings reached her door She took to bed and looked up no more, And, ere again another year came round, She, well as Jane, was laid within the ground; And all were grieved poor Goody's end to see: No better neighbour entered house than she, A harmless soul, with no abusive tongue, Trig as new pins, and tight's the day was long; And go the week about, nine times in ten Ye'd find her house as cleanly as her sen. But, Lord protect us! time such change does bring, We cannot dream what oer our heads may hing; The very house she lived in, stick and stone, Since Goody died, has tumbled down and gone: And where the marjoram once, and sage, and rue, And balm, and mint, with curled-leaf parsley grew, And double marygolds, and silver thyme, And pumpkins neath the window used to climb; And where I often when a child for hours Tried through the pales to get the tempting flowers, As lady's laces, everlasting peas,