Curiosities of Street Literature. Various

his sake the crystal tears did pour,

      Into a mournful valley she crossed,

      Would often wander all alone,

      And for the jewel she had lost

      In the bower would often mourn.

      Oh! that I were some pretty bird,

      That I might fly to hide my shame;

      O silly maid, for to believe

      The fair delusions of a man.

      The harmless lamb that sports and plays,

      The turtle’s constant to his mate,

      Nothing so wretched is as I,

      To love a man that does me hate.

      I will to him a letter send,

      Remind him of the oaths he made

      Within that shady bower, where

      My tender heart he first betray’d.

      Her trembling hand a letter wrote,

      My dearest dear, what must I do?

      Alas! what have I done, that I

      Forsaken am now by you!

      I could have wedded a worthy farmer,

      Who little knows my misery;

      I did forsake a wealthy grazier,

      All for the love I bore to thee.

      And now my little infant dear

      Will quickly spread abroad my shame,

      One line of comfort to me send,

      E’er I am by your cruelty slain.

      This answer he to her did send,

      Your insolence amazes me,

      To think that I should marry one

      With whom, before, I have been free.

      Indeed I’ll not a father be

      Unto a bastard you shall bear,

      So take no further thought of me,

      No more from you pray let me hear.

      When she this letter did receive,

      She wrung her hands and wept full sore:

      And every day she still would range,

      To lament within the pleasant bower.

      The faithless wretch began to think,

      Her father’s rich, as I do hear,

      He said, I sure shall punished be,

      Soon as the story he does hear.

      The devil then he did begin

      To enter in his wretched mind;

      Her precious life he then must have,

      Thus he to act the thing did find.

      He many times did watch her out,

      Into the pleasant valley, where

      One day he privately did go,

      When he knew she was not there.

      And privately he dug a grave

      Underneath an oaken tree.

      Then in the branches he did hide,

      To act his piece of cruelty.

      Poor harmless soul she nothing knew,

      As usual she went there alone,

      And on a bank of violets

      In mournful manner sat her down.

      Of his unkindness did complain;

      At length the grave she did espy,

      She rose indeed to view the same,

      Not thinking that he was so nigh.

      You gentle gods so kind, said she,

      Did you this grave for me prepare?

      He then descended from the tree,

      Saying, strumpet now thy death is near.

      O welcome, welcome, she replied,

      As long as by your hand I die,

      This is a pleasant marriage bed,

      I’m ready, use your cruelty.

      But the heavens bring to light

      Thy crime, and thus let it appear,

      Winter and summer on this grave,

      The damask rose in bloom spring here.

      Never to wither though ’tis cropped,

      But when thy hand do touch the same,

      Then may the bloom that minute blast

      To bring to light my bitter shame.

      More she’d have said, but with his sword,

      He pierc’d her tender body through;

      Then threw her in the silent grave,

      Saying, now, there is an end of you.

      He fill’d the grave up close again,

      With weeds the same did overspread;

      Then unconcerned, he straight went home,

      Immediately went to his bed.

      Her parents dear did grieve full sore, at

      The loss of their young daughter,

      Thinking she was stole away, as

      To all their riches she was heir to.

      Twelve months after this was passed,

      Thousands for a truth do know,

      According as she did desire,

      On her grave a damask rose grew.

      Many wonder’d at the same,

      For in the winter it did spring,

      If any one did crop the rose,

      In a moment it would grow again.

      The thing it blazed the country round,

      And thousands went the same to see,

      This miracle from heaven shew,

      He ’mong the rest must curious be.

      To go and see if this was true,

      But when unto the plant he came,

      The beauteous rose he saw in bloom,

      And eagerly he cropp’d the same.

      The leaves did fall from off the bush,

      The rose within his hand did die,

      He cried, ’tis fair Susannah’s blood,

      That spring up from her fair body.

      Many people that were there,

      Took notice of what he did say,

      They told him he’d a murder done,

      He the truth confess’d without delay.

      They dug and found the body there,

      ’Twas but this month that it was known.

      Before a magistrate he went,

      And now