I sit alone along a stony brook.
I weep, for all my lonely sorrows.
I conceive of what my life has took,
And, I wish not to know any tomorrows.

I gaze on down into the flowing water's stream
And as I sit in my tears, I conjure up a dream;
And as the stream accepts my tears,
I try to ponder what this dream could mean.

I'm walking in a timberland,
and it set near a woodsmen’s mill.
And, with the flowing water's rushing sound,
it makes this dream seem real.

I see a miller's wheel, and it's turning high and round;
It squeaking high above my head.
And, when the water flows down down to the ground,
It is then, I see the water is red.

The water is red.
This seems strange but it is true.
And down there in this deep red water,
A soft little white lily grew .

It is as white as snow,
And as white as new
And here it is dwelling,
Inside this deep dark red pool.

Oh poor lily,
Now, it is changing to pink;
For of this cold flowing red water,
This poor little lily did drink;

Poor little flower,
This little lily is heavy from its drink;
It goes down down under the water
The lily did sink;
Into its red red watery grave.

I Reflect back on to my stony flowing stream.
I do ponder of what this image could mean.
A tear falls from a burning eye;
I sit here in my melancholy
And, I wonder why;