And when she was out from me,
If I only spoke her name,
She would be sure to run to me quick,
Without wanting anything to eat.
She placed her whole affections on me;
When she was alive, and saw me to the east window,
She would put her head through the pickets,
And look at me, as long as she could see my face.
She had more wit than any hen I ever knew,
Poor, sweet little dear, down in her silent grave,