All along the berry path,
Where the weedies grow,
There's still signs of berry bushes,
Where children planted them long ago.
If you travel further there,
But not too far away,
You'll see the little decaying house,
Where those children used to play.
It used to be a pretty house,
With flowers all about,
Bunny hutches and a pond,
A tree with a house along a certain route.
The little house is empty now,
Except for squirrels and a coon,
But I think I heard them people say,
You can hearing a bawling just before noon.
They shakes them heads at that mournful sound,
Acoming from the nursery room,
Where the little babe child died-
On the berry path you'lla find his tomb.
They say the whole house of them fled right after,
Afearing for their life,
They left their every earthly thing,
Though we don't know for what danger or strife.
But if you'll venture inside there,
Best leave you very quick,
'Cause they say the death of those who stay about,
In that house is still very thick.
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