Maud Müller worked at making hay
And cleared her forty cents a day.
Her clothes were coarse, but her health was fine,
And so she worked in the sweet sunshine—
Singing as glad as a bird in May
“Barbary Allen” the livelong day.
She often glanced at the far off town
And wondered if eggs were up, or down.
And the sweet song died of a strange disease
Leaving a phantom-taste of cheese,