On the banks of Rose­dale’s wa­ters,
Where the bloom­ing flow­ers grow wild
Lived a pure and love­ly daug­hter
A rich skep­tic’s on­ly child.
Crowned in all her wealth and beau­ty
Learned in all her clas­sic lore
And for vir­tue, fame and wis­dom
She was queen of Rose­dale shore.

A large meet­ing was pro­gress­ing
Near her father’s flow­ery grove
Where poor sin­ners were pro­fess­ing
All their bliss of Christ­ian love.
Father, let me prove the Bi­ble
To this poor il­lit­er­ate clan,
That it’s no­thing but a li­bel
On the char­ac­ter of man.

Go, my daugh­ter, you are able
To de­stroy their Sab­bath theme;
Go and prove their book a fa­ble
And their doc­trine all a dream.
Dressed in all her pride and glo­ry,
She went forth to join that throng,
Where she heard the Gospel sto­ry
Both in ser­mon and in song.

Soon a thrill of deep con­vict­ion
Seized up­on her slum­ber­ing soul
Filled her mind with an af­fect­ion,
That her heart could not con­trol.
Calm­ly rose she with­out fal­ter,
All her fol­lies bade fare­well
And came in be­fore the al­tar,
Where in hum­ble pray­er she fell.

Casting all her care on Hea­ven,
Every pray­er went to the throne
’Till her sins were all for­gi­ven
And the Sav­ior was her own.
Then she hast­ened to her fa­ther
To in­form him of God’s love
And to tell her ag­èd mo­ther
There’s a bet­ter home ab­ove.