Sing; how ‘a would sing!
       How ‘a would raise the tune
When we rode in the waggon from harvesting
               By the light o’ the moon!

       Dance; how ‘a would dance!
       If a fiddlestring did but sound
She would hold out her coats, give a slanting glance,
               And go round and round.

       Laugh; how ‘a would laugh!
       Her peony lips would part
As if none such a place for a lover to quaff
               At the deeps of a heart.

       Julie, O girl of joy,
       Soon, soon that lover he came.
Ah, yes; and gave thee a baby-boy,
               But never his name . . .

       — Tolling for her, as you guess;
       And the baby too . . . ‘Tis well.
You knew her in maidhood likewise? — Yes,
               That’s her burial bell.

       “I suppose,” with a laugh, she said,
       “I should blush that I’m not a wife;
But how can it matter, so soon to be dead,
               What one does in life!”

       When we sat making the mourning
       By her death-bed side, said she,
“Dears, how can you keep from your lovers, adorning
               In honour of me!”

       Bubbling and brightsome eyed!
       But now — O never again.
She chose her bearers before she died
               From her fancy-men.

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