THE BROKEN HEARTED GARDENER.

I’m a broken hearted Gardener, and don’t know what to do,
My love she is inconstant, and a fickle jade, too,
One smile from her lips will never be forgot,
It refreshes, like a shower from a watering pot.

Chorus.
Oh, Oh! she’s a fickle wild rose,
A damask, a cabbage, a young China Rose.

She’s my myrtle, my geranium,
My Sun flower, my sweet marjorum,
My honey suckle, my tulip, my violet,
My holy hock, my dahlia, my mignonette.

We grew up together like two apple trees,
And clung to each other like double sweet peas,
Now they’re going to trim her, and plant her in a pot,
And I’m left to wither, neglected and forgot.

She’s my snowdrop, my ranunculus,
My hyacinth, my gilliflower, my polyanthus,
My heart’s ease, my pink, water lily,
My buttercup, my daisy, my daffydown dilly.

I’m like a scarlet runner that has lost its stick,
Or a cherry that’s left for the dickey to pick,
Like a waterpot, I weep, like a paviour I sigh,
Like a mushroom I’ll wither, like a cucumber, die.

I’m like a humble bee that doesn’t know where to settle,
And she’s a dandelion, and a stinging nettle,
My heart’s like a beet root choked with chickweed,
And my head’s like a pumpkin running to seed.

I’m a great mind to make myself a felo-de-se,
And finish all my woes on the branch of a tree:
But I won’t, for I know at my kicking, you’d roar,
And honour my death with a double encore.

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