But only them that knows,
How hard it is to undergo trouble and sickness.
When I am taken away,
I must be buried to the east side,
Of my Poor little dears' graves.
Poor little Beauty Linna, she remembered Poor Sissy,
For eight months after Poor Sissy's decease,
I know it by many things.
They would always have the best of good cake,
And best of good wheat, brought from the west.