Withered be the flower Long past its prime and bloom Forgotten on the stony bed This silent hillside tomb For coppered be the grip Of this wooded land A crude cold gauntlet Hides the bony hand Tears once warmed the ground Torn out of eyes that could cry no more Compassion for the wind to take O doth pity the bastard poor A life of misery and hate Upon a chance, a twist of fate The poison from the goblet ran Down the throat of her drunken man