The Butcher Boy


Henry J. Wehman, Song Publisher, No. 50 Chatham Street, New York City.

The Butcher Boy.

In Jersey City, where I did dwell,
A butcher-boy I loved so well,
He courted me my heart away,
And now with me he will not stay.
There is an inn in the same town,
Where my love goes and sits him down;
He takes a strange girl on his knee,
And tells to her what he don’t tell me.
It’s a grief for me; I’ll tell you why:
Because she has more gold than I;

But her gold will melt, and her silver fly;
In time of need, she’ll be poor as I.
I go up-stairs to make my bed,
But nothing to my mother said;
My mother comes up-stairs, to me
Saying “What’s the matter, my daughter dear?”
“Oh! mother, mother! you do not know
What grief, and pain, and sorrow, woe—

Go get a chair to sit me down,
And a pen and ink to write it down.”
On every line she dropped a tear,
While calling home her Willie dear;
And when her father he came home,
He said, “Where is my daughter gone?”

He went up-stairs, the door he broke—
He found her hanging upon a rope—
He took his knife and he cut her down,
And in her breast those lines were found:
“Oh! what a silly maid am I!
To hang myself for a butcher-boy!
Go dig my grave, both long and deep;
Place a marble-stone at my head and feet,
And on my breast a turtle dove,
To show the world I died for love!”

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