MY POOR LITTLE DOLL

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
flowers
are dying.
 
Found in Longman’s English Grammar, 1916, with some pronouns changed
 

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