Julie-Jane

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.