Molly, you’ve got to    put your saddle on tight.   You’ve a red, red runner    for your final flight.   You’re my only sister,    but a price is a price,   and he’s not going lower    than my sister’s life.      Would that I may go with you,    but a rule is a rule,   and the red, red rascal    is no sister’s fool.   In the Putnam meadow    grows a poison lily,   if I were a smart girl,    I would take it with me.      So she’s taken her dress up,    and she’s tied back her hair   with a winsome ribbon    such as never were,   and she looked as brazen    as the scalded sea,   when the sun rips its favors    into morning’s peace.      She’s an auburn woman    on mahogany mare,   she was dressed full bloody    for the devil’s despair.   And it was no lily    for his cardamom lips,   but for girl and filly,    and for hooves and hips.      All the plants in Putnam    grow a venomous green.   It was milk and money    made the meadows mean.   There she’s taken her flower,    and she’s borne it away,   under nettled fingers    that she daren’t display.         From the Ipswich river,    riding easterly   to the black oak sapling,    where three fences meet,   and she knows he’s waiting,    and she’s down from her horse,   and per their agreement,    she is walking backwards.      Cloven hoofprints pressing    in a ravenous reel,   it’s a phantom tarries    at her heart and her heel.   And with each foot stepping,    there’s a petal has gone   from a noxious blooming    to a maidenly tongue.      Did the devil take her?    Did the devil decide   on a red carnation    or a red-blooded bride?   He’s been up her ankle,    and he’s taken his treat,   and he’s eaten apples    full of poison lily.      Satan wears a flower    like a dandy heathen,   it’s a fairer lily    than the one that she gave him.   He’s a rowdy rascal    with a hearty complexion––   it’s the very color    of a lily stamen.