How do you live on’t, my pretty maid?
By selling my photos, she promptly said.
Then may I marry you, my pretty maid?
If you’ve a title, perhaps—she said.
Punch. June, 1878.
“Where are you going to, my Pretty Maid.”
(New Reading.)
With the pail for the milk hung over her arm,
Across the green fields tripped Mary;