In the garden where me and my love did meet There we sat a chord and my love dropped off to sleep I had a bottle of burgundy wine which my true love did not know There I poured some to that dear little girl down on the banks below I had a bottle of burgundy wine which my true love did not know I had a bottle of burgundy wine which my true love did not know I drew a saber through her which was of blood I drew a saber through her which was a bloody knife I threw her into the river which was a dreadful sigh My father often told me that money would set me free If I would murder that dear little girl whose name was Rose Connelly . . . Now he sits in his cabin door wiping his tear-dimmed eyes Looking at his own dear son upon the scaffold high My race is run beneath the sun the devil is waiting for me For I did murder that dear little girl whose name was Rose Connelly