| Withered be the flower | |
| Long past it's prime and bloom | |
| Forgotten on the stony bed | |
| This silent hillside tomb | |
| For coppered be the grip Of this wooded land | |
| A crude cold gauntlet | |
| Hides the boney hand | |
| Tears once warmed the ground | |
| Torn out of eyes that could cry no more | |
| Compassion for the wind to take | |
| O doth pity the bastard poor | |
| A life of misery and hate | |
| Upon a chance a twist of fate | |
| The poison from the goblet ran | |
| Down the throat of her drunken man |
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