Citons la première strophe

Dead! Thirteen a month ago!

Short and narrow her life's walk; Lover's love she coiild not know Even by a dream or lalk :

Too young to be glad of youth, Missing honour, labour, rest, And the warmth of a babe's mouth Al the blossom of her breast.

Must you pily her for this And for ail the loss it is, You, her mother, with wet face, Having had ail in your case ?