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.