But then it’s beautif’ler to me

Than fresher ones to you.

Jist let me look agin—’y jing!

I see her smile there yet!

Somehow it sorto’ all comes back,

An’ I see her smile there yet.

They’re withered—sorto’ withered now,

They’ve got a musty smell;

So I must shet the book up tight

An’ set an’ wait a spell.