Yis, she died, sir; an’ there she was buried, she never set fut here agin;
An’ it’s nought but the truth that her like I’ve not looked on afore her or sin’.
An’ bad luck, thin, to thim that ’ud harm her. A pity--a pity, bedad,
If ye come to considher the pleasure in life she’d a right to ha’ had.
’Tis the same as a rose-bud that’s torn whin its red’s just the brightest to see;
Or a linnet shot dead twitterin’ soft be its bit of a nest in the tree--
So, in spring, whin the hedges is greenin’, an’ cuckoos beginnin’ to call,
Poor Miss Honor I mind, an’ her weddin’, that was never a weddin’ at all.