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And left poor Molly to bewail

The sorrows she cannot re-tail.

The grateful cabbage, greens, and leek

Her hands have reared, could they but speak,

Would thus hold converse with the ground,

Which daily her attention found.

“Oh mother earth, how hard you get,

Since Molly’s left to pine and fret;

You drain our tops, our bottoms pinch,

We cannot grow another inch!

“Your bed, so lately soft and warm,

To stony hardness you transform;

If ’tis for Molly this you do,

Oh think of leek and cabbage too!”

“My children,” then said mother earth,

“I ever loved ye from your birth;

But know that I, as well as you,

Am doomed to pine and suffer too.

“And if your bottoms feel uneasy,

’Tis not from want of will to please ye;

And if your green tops droop and pine,

’Tis not from any fault of mine.

“For I am thirsting for a sup,

And Molly never stirs me up.

Forsaken love hath made her sore—

She cultivates the ground no more!”

Oh mournful day! oh mournful day!

Base Roger’s cow has run away,

And left poor Molly to bewail