But I know that she knew it now, and I just believe, I do,
That her poor little heart was broken, and so her head broke too.
Oh, my baby! my little baby! I wish my head had been hit!
For I've hit it over and over, and it hasn't cracked a bit.
But since the darling is dead, she'll want to be buried, of course:
We will take my little wagon, Nurse, and you shall be the horse;
And I'll walk behind and cry, and we'll put her in this, you see—
This dear little box—and we'll bury her there out under the maple-tree.
And papa will make me a tombstone, like the one he made for my bird;
And he'll put what I tell him on it—yes, every single word!