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Wicked Polly Young people, hark while I relate The story of poor Polly's fate. She was a lady young and fair And died a-groaning in despair. To balls and parties she would go In spite of all her friends could do. "I'll turn," said she, "when I am old And God will then receive my soul." One Friday morning she fell sick. Her stubborn heart began to quake. She cried, "Alas, my days are spent. It is too late now to repent." She called her mother to her bed. Her eyes were rolling in her head. A ghastly look she did assume. She cried, "Alas, I am undone. "My loving father, you I leave. For wicked Polly do not grieve, For I must burn forever more When thousand thousand years are o'er." "Your counsels I have slighted all My carnal appetite to fill When I am dead, remember well Your wicked Polly groans in Hell." She wrung her hands and groaned and cried And gnawed her tongue before she died. Her nails turned black, her voice did fail She died and left this lower vale. May this a warning be to those That love the ways that Polly chose. Turn from your sins, lest you like her Shall leave this world in black despair. From Ballads Migrant in New England, Flanders Collected from Mrs. Carder Whaley, RI 1944. A version was published in 1907 DT #646 Laws H6 RG
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