On Springfield Mountain there did dwell
A likely youth who was known full well,
Lieutenant Cushman’s, his only son,
A likely youth, scarce twenty-one
One Monday morning he did go
Down in the meadow for to mow.
He scarce had mowed half round the field
When a poison serpent bit his heel.
When he received his deathly wound
He laid his scythe down on the ground.
To return home was his intent,
Crying aloud long as he went.
His voice was heard both far and near,
But none of his friends did there appear,
Thinking that he some workman called,
Poor boy, alone at last did fall.
It was seventeen hundred and sixty-one
When this sad accident was done.
May this a warning be to all
To be prepared when Death does call.
*these lyrics have changed, for original lyrics see Warners’ book.