Sickened an’ drooped an’ died in an hour!
(Bring me th’ milk an’ th’ meat an’ bread.)
Drooped, she did, like a wilted flower.
Come an’ look at her, how she lies,
Little an’ lone, and like she’s scared....
(She lost her beads last Friday week,
Tore her Book, an’ she never cared.)...
Eh, my lass, but it’s winter, now—
You that ever was meant for June,
Your laughing mouth an’ your dancing feet—