Schooil'd for years her grief to smother,
Still shoos human—tha'rt her brother.
Tho' tha'rt donn'd i' fine black cloathin,
A kid glove o' awther hand,
Dunnot touch her roughly, loathin—
Shoo's thi sister, understand:
Th' wind maks merry wi' her tatters,
Poor lost pilgrim!—but what matters?
Lulk ha sharp her elbow's growin,
An' ha pale her little face,