Come all kind friends and kindred dear and Christians young and old,
A story I'll relate to you, 'twill make your blood run cold;
'Tis all about an unfortunate boy who lived not far from here,
In the township of Arcade in the County of Lapeer.
It seems his occupation was a sawyer in a mill,
He followed it successfully two years, one month, until,
Until this fatal accident that caused many to weep and wail;
'Twas where this young man lost his life,—his name was Harry Bale.
On the 29th of April in the year of seventy-nine,
He went to work as usual, no fear did he design;
In lowering of the feed bar throwing the carriage into gear
It brought him down upon the saw and cut him quite severe;
It cut him through the collar-bone and half way down the back,
It threw him down upon the saw, the carriage coming back.
He started for the shanty, his strength was failing fast;
He said, "Oh, boys, I'm wounded: I fear it is my last."
His brothers they were sent for, likewise his sisters too,
The doctors came and dressed his wound, but kind words proved untrue.
Poor Harry had no father to weep beside his bed,
No kind and loving mother to sooth his aching head.
He was just as gallant a young man as ever you wished to know,
But he withered like a flower, it was his time to go.
They placed him in his coffin and laid him in his grave;
His brothers and sisters mourned the loss of a brother so true and brave.
They took him to the graveyard and laid him away to rest,
His body lies mouldering, his soul is among the blest.