"Shoo beots fine fouk ith taon;
Shoo's like a walking cortan'd bed;
I wish I'd sich a gaon."
This Dolly heeard, but on shoo mov'd;
Sad, mourning, all furlorn:
"I wor in different trim, God knows,
When I coom on at morn."
I must be dreaming, Dolly thought;
But to be sure shoo put
Hur hands both up to touch her een,