. .
--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.
NOTE.--It is, or was, a common custom in Wessex, and probably other country
places, to prepare the mourning beside the death-bed, the dying person
sometimes assisting, who also selects his or her bearers on such occasions.
"Coats" (line 7).--Old name for petticoats.
NEWS FOR HER MOTHER
I
One mile more is
Where your door is
Mother mine! -
Harvest's coming,
Mills are strumming,
Apples fine,
And the cider made to-year will be as wine.
II
Yet, not viewing
What's a-doing
Here around
Is it thrills me,
And so fills me
That I bound
Like a ball or leaf or lamb along the ground.
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