Oh weary traveller, ride on by,

Oh weary traveller, ride on by, For should you stop you’ll groan and sigh, For, low, you know his love will die, But, do not ask, I know not why. You give your heart, you give your life, But, that dear boy will be your strife, He’ll take you not, to be his wife, But, pierce your heart with his own knife. No potion stops the march of time Nor magic spell the age old crime, But death is pleased should his bells chime, So weary traveller, heed my rhyme.