Sung by: Emma Puterbaugh Medlin
Recorded on 5/6/62
Click here to listen to the original recording
Where my false lover sits himself there.
He takes a strange girl on his knee
And tells her what he once told me.
There is a flower that some folks say
Will heal the heart both night and day.
Then to the meadow she quickly ran,
And picked of every flower that sprang.
She picked of red, she picked of blue,
For little she knew what love would do.
She picked of purple, and of brown;
She picked of every flower she found.
The green mossy banks were her bed;
The heavens were her coverlet.
Lying there, not a word was spoke;
Except for love, her heart was broke.
And when they found that she was dead,
They went to her false lover. He said,
"I'm glad, I'm glad, I'm glad," said he,
"I hope her soul's in eternity."
What's that, you rave, you wretch, you say.
She's wished you many a happy day,
And now your soul in the flames shall weep,
While hers on Abraham's bosom sleep.
Go dig her grave both wide and deep.
Put a marble slab both head and feet.
On her breast, a turtledove
To show the world she died for love.
Upon her breast a dove of blue,
To show the world what love will do.
(Dr. Wolf: "And you heard that from your mother, too."
Ms. Medlin: "Yes.")