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