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They’re withered—sorto’ withered now,

They’ve got a musty smell;

So I must shet the book up tight

An’ set an’ wait a spell.

They’re withered—sorto’ withered now,

They’ve lost their red an’ green,

An’ the leaves are crushed an’ crumpled up

With crinkled buds atween.

They’ve got a sorto’ musty smell

That almost makes me sick,

For they ’mind me o’ the days in June

We got ’m ’long the crick.

They wan’t no style about them tho’,

Like city flowers is—

They’s jist the good ol’-time Wil’-Rose

That God set out fer His.

I stuck ’em in this Good Ol’ Book

Long ’fore they drooped an’ died,

An’ here each day they’ve smiled at me

When I have only cried.

I touch ’em—an’ I touch her hand

That put ’em here in mine!

I see ’em—an’ I see her lips

More temptin’er ’an wine.

’T’s a sorto’ played-out ol’ bouquet,

Ol’-fashion’ roses too;

But then it’s beautif’ler to me

Than fresher ones to you.

Jist let me look agin—’y jing!

I see her smile there yet!

Somehow it sorto’ all comes back,

An’ I see her smile there yet.

They’re withered—sorto’ withered now,

They’ve got a musty smell;

So I must shet the book up tight

An’ set an’ wait a spell.