The purtiest vlower that in the gaarden growed
Es rinkled (withered) to a staalk.
"The staalk will graw no laives, sweet'art,
The vlowers will ne'er return:
And now my oan love es dead and gone,
Wot can I do but mourn?"
"The pore maid did zing this," explained Uncle Anthony. "She was in a wisht way, for maidens be vit fer nothin' 'cipt they've got a man by 'em. The man es the tree, an' the maid es an ivy-laif, and tha's oal 'bout it. But you do knaw, my deears, that when a man 'ave bin dead one year, 'ee do allays cum back. Tha's religion, ed'n et then? Zo—
"A twelvemonth an' a day bein' gone,
The sperrit rised and spok:
"'My body es clay cowld, sweet'art,