The pennyroyal dies, and the chervil fades away -
For any other herbalist, 'tis quite a gloomy day
But as for me, my pretty, my rift is fit to burst.
How much will this run get me? Ten thousand gold at worst!

I move up to the mountains, the cold and stalwart peaks
I pluck up enough kafe to satisfy for weeks.
The arnica comes with me as I go on my way,
And in my wake there's nothing - not a single bud astray!

Desending into Balach Swamp, another crop I reap.
The myrtle and the horehound, why, they're now all mine to keep!
The gators and the turtles hurl themselves against my shield,
And finished here, I set my sights on Shanthmark's flaxen field.

I wind my way to Faethorn, and pinch and pluck and pull
I pack and push my rift until with faeleaf it is full.
And then it's off to other planes, to Water and to Earth,
To reap the rarer riches; so much more are these herbs worth!

And all across the Basin, at sea, on shore, in snow
Taking up every sprig we see, do me and my gloves go.
Behind me lies a trail of dust, ahead a trail of gold.
With every trip I make, my wealth will grow - two, three, fourfold!

But lately it's been hard to find my little green goldmines.
There's nothing in the valleys now but weeds and useless vines.
And on the mountain peaks and in the deepest forests, too
There's nothing left that's worth the trip for me to go accrue.

My coffers all are draining, and my customers have left.
Until the herbs get grown again, I'm nothing but bereft.
Perhaps I ought have planted one or two or three or four
For now I know the horror when the herbs can grow no more.