Twas a frosted morn in winter deep When Rosey left for wood The fire was low just barely a glow When Rosey left for wood Upon the wall a tapestry hung A farmyard, brook and lane A pleasant scene, naive theme With wheat and hay and grain No figures old or young The artist did include But now upon that landscape fair A woman rough and crude Each day the image differed The woman here and there Then close like a portrait It was Rosey standing there! I met a maid one summers day I thought to make my wife On getting home, the picture red Twas Rosey with a knife! My new love, I took to see The rocks above the lake And to my sin I pushed her in The smile on Rosey's face Days did pass, and I grew old But Rosey looked the same My bones were stiff and hair was grey But Rosey looked the same Upon the bed and almost dead She looked down on me From tapestry threads her hand did reach My spirit now set free After a time, friends did come And were sorry to see me pale The priest said what he thought was right And they carried me away My home was cleared, history sold Empty was my place 'Cept a picture on the wall Of lovers in embrace.
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