Down in the willow garden Where me and my love did meet Oh there we sit a-courting My love dropped off to sleep 
I had a bottle of the burglar’s wine Which my true love did not know And there I poisoned my own true love Down under the banks below 
I drew my sabre (pron ’saybree’) through her Which was a bloody knife I threw her in the river Which was a dreadful sight 
My father always taught me That money would set me free If I’d murder that pretty little miss Whose name is Rose Conley 
He’s sitting now in his own cottage door A-wiping his weeping eyes A-looking at his own dear son Upon the scaffold high 
My race is run beneath the sun Though hell’s now waiting for me I did murder that pretty little miss Whose name is Rose Conley 
file from: www.traditionalmusic.co.uk 
Visit http://www.traditionalmusic.co.uk for more songs