But after twenty years, why now will such
A bubbling spring up to my eyelids start?
Ah! there be things that ask no leave to touch
The fountains of the eyes or feelings of the heart,
“This load of clay will break her bones I fear,
For when alive she wasn’t over-strong;
We’ll dig no deeper, I can watch her here
A month or so, sure nobody will do me wrong.”
Four men bear Jillen on a door—’tis light,
They have not much of Jillen but her frame;