So take you to Long Melford high,
See malted barley, wheat and rye
A gentle woman, sad yet true
Ensconced herself there for to brew.
Her drink, though, does not bring her joy,
For yet her heart yearns for a boy —
Nay, for a man, a doctor wise,
A man for whom she cries and cries.
He loves her not, as well she knows,
Yet ever more her sadness grows.
Her figure slender, charming, wan,
Her tender eyes yet woebegone.
Admirers many sit and sigh,
She heeds them not, she passes by.
Her only solace comes in drink,
It burns her heart, she does not think.
The sad, sad tale lives on in lore,
Her last words simply this: 'No more.'
Although this love died in its prime
He came and saw her one last time;
As she was lowered to the ground,
He came, and one last message found.
That scrap told that death was release,
So Stevie Mira, rest in peace.