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She was nineteen years old the Rose of the Town
With brown eyes and feet length dress of black
But the reaper on all of our lives has the final say
And all is quiet and dark now where she does lay.
The Rose of the Town she inspired bards to rhyme
But she did not live on to see her life's prime
Like yesterday's water gone off to the sea
To die very young was her life's destiny.
The Rose of the Town her praises have been sung
But the reaper not ageist he takes old and young
She did not live to see her twentieth Spring
A new Rose will bloom and her praises we'll sing.
Some born to die young and some live to be old
And the Rose of the Town beautiful to behold
In her nineteenth year none as lovely as she
She is now at rest in the bed at the sea.