I lost my poor little doll.  The days
are cold, the nights
are long. Oh,
green was the corn
as I rode on my way.
The clouds
are scudding
across the moon.
We were crowded
in the cabin. Up
rose old Barbara Frietchie
then. No useless
coffin enclosed her breast.
Slowly and sadly we
laid her down. Three
blind mice, see how
they run. The dew
was falling fast, the stars
began to blink. Now
see her mounted
once again. I pray thee
put into yonder port;
for I fear a hurricane.
The warm sun
is failing, the bleak
wind is wailing, the bare
boughs are sighing, 
the pale
are dying.
Found in Longman’s English Grammar, 1916, with some pronouns changed

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