From suitors a dozen,

Not counting a cousin

And two or three uncles or so,

She’d freely and frankly, firmly and fairly,

Flatly and finally fled!

For never a one could sing, not one,

Not a line, not a note, not a thing, not one,

And she, she said, if she must be wed,

A singer she’d have, or she’d have none,

For really she’d almost rather be dead