Page:Poems and lyrics of the joy of earth.djvu/125

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she goes up the street with her book in her hand,
 * And her Good morning, Martin! Ay, lass, how d'ye do?

Very well, thank you, Martin!—I can't understand!
 * I might just as well never have cobbled a shoe!

I can't understand it. She talks like a song;
 * Her voice takes your ear like the ring of a glass;

She seems to give gladness while limping along,
 * Yet sinner ne'er suffer'd like that little lass.

First, a fool of a boy ran her down with a cart.
 * Then, her fool of a father—a blacksmith by trade—