By Jean Bush
Come to me, my pretty thing,
For killed I was and dead I’ve been.
The flowers strewn about my grave
I bring to you this lovely day.
Draw not back, my little lass.
Soon all your fears will leave and pass.
Your love I seek to give me life;
I’ve come to take you for my wife.
The coffin, Dear, is a lonely place,
And no one there can know my face.
The rattling bones of those I see
Are not a dead man’s company.
You turn away, you turn to go,
My beat less heart has sunken low.
My casket calls me with a sigh…
I’ll have to wait until you die.
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