I
There she goes up the street with her book in her hand,
And her Good morning, Martin! Ay, lass, how d’ye do?
Very well, thank you, Martin!—I can’t understand!
I might just as well never have cobbled a shoe!
I can’t understand it. She talks like a song;
Her voice takes your ear like the ring of a glass;
She seems to give gladness while limping along,
Yet sinner ne’er suffer’d like that little lass.