I bend me o’er the jutting brink, and to myself I say,
“I marvel in the glassy stream, how looks my face to-day?”
VII.
My face is dirty; out of trim my hair is, and awry;
Oh, tell me, where’s the little girl so ugly now as I?
’Tis all because whole weary hours I’m forced to pick the tea,
And driving winds and soaking showers have made me what you see!
VIII.
With morn again come wind and rain, and though so fierce and strong,
With basket big, and little hat, I wend my way along;