This is a traditional song we Amurricans get from the English, and these are the words I sing. I don't care if no one knows about innkeepers drugging their guests back in the day; it makes more sense than "burgundy" wine--what other than sleeping drugs would there be for his true love not to know?
|C |C |C |Am
Where me and my love did meet
|C |C |Am
'Twas there while we were courting
|C |C |C |Am
My love dropped off to sleep.
|C |G |C
I had a bottle of the burglar's wine
|Am |Am |C |Am
Which my true love did not know,
|C |C |Am
And there I murdered my own true love
|C |C |C |Am
Down on the banks below.
|C |G |C
I drew my saber through her
It was a bloody knife
Threw her into the river
Which was a dreadful sight
My father often told me
That money would set me free
If I'd but murder that pretty little miss
Whose name was Rose Connely
Now he waits at his cabin door
Wiping his tear-dimmed eye
And watches as his only son
Climbs up the scaffold high
My race is run beneath the sun
Low hell is waiting for me
For I did murder my own true love
Whose name was Rose Connely.
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