If one but might a dread filled night
beyond the courtyard trimmed of green.
Where danced the maids of flaxen hair
in velvet gown and sightly preen.

For each the belles, the fair eyed belles
did prance the eve to waking dawn
as sleekness turned the gently eyes
upon the green of gardened lawn.

Yea, though the lawn was cared but well
and trims were shorn of evergreen.
Was but by chance once flesh filled bones
were found upon the roses glean.

A cry, a cry, a horrid shrill
did come to ear and waking fright
for in the bed of roses killed
the gardener rests on fateful night.

This place within the ground repose
was but the crown of all the land
and as the rot did feed the rose
the master’s dog did mouth a hand.

This catch did bring a frightful view
and caused to faint and swoon a guest.
But with each rose that bloomed anew
a headstone marked the gardener’s rest.

For now the rose does bring to grow
a bud to grace the gardener's head.
And when the belles now dance the ball
they host a toast to roses red.