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It's of a young unfortunate boy That's known both far and near; His parents reared him tenderly, Not many miles from here.
2 It seems his occupation Was a sawyer in the mill. He followed it successfully One year, three months, until It was the time for him to go To leave this world of care.
Who knows how soon it will be our doom To follow him up there?
3 In the township of Ar-Arcade, In the year of seventy-nine, He went to his work as usual, No danger did he incline.
In lowering of the feed box, Threw the carriage into gear Which drew him up onto the saw And cut him so severe
4 It sawed him through the shoulder blade And halfway down the back;
He was then thrown out upon the floor
As the carriage did come back.
He started for the shanty,
But his .strength was failing fast.
He says, "My boys, I'm wounded,
I'm feared this is my last."
5 His brothers then were sent for, Likewise his sisters too;
The doctors came and dressed his wounds,
But alas, it was too true!
And when these cruel wounds were dressed,
He unto them did say,
"I know there is no help for me;
I soon must pass away."
6 No father had poor Harry To weep beside his bed,