XIV. THE CULPRIT
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he night my father got meHis mind was not on me;He did not plague his fancyTo muse if I should beThe son you see. The day my mother bore meShe was a fool and glad,For all the pain I cost her,That she had borne the ladThat borne she had. My mother and my fatherOut of the light they lie;The warrant would not find them,And here 'tis only IShall hang so high. Oh let not man rememberThe soul that God forgot,But fetch the county kerchiefAnd noose me in the knot,And I will rot. For so the game is endedThat should not have begun.My father and my motherThey had a likely son,And I have none.
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