The gilded girdles fruitless.
My little girl, ’twas to a bed far other
That one day thy poor mother
Had thought to lead thee, and this simple dower
Suits not the bridal hour;
A tiny shroud and gown of her own sewing
She gives thee at thy going.
Thy father brings a clod of earth, a somber
Pillow for thy last slumber.
And so a single casket, scant of measure,