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I cannot tell low this may be, But plain it is, the thorn-is bound With heavy tufts of moss, that strive To drag it to the ground. And this I know, full many a time, When she was on the mountain high, By day, and in the silent night, When all the stars shone clear and bright;. That I have heard her cry, “Oh misery! oh misery! “(.woe is me! oh misery.!"
WE ARE SEVEN..
A simple child, dear brother Jim,
I met a little cottage girl,
She had a rustic, woodland air,
“ Sisters and brothers, little maid, “ How many may you be ?" “How many ? seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me.
“ And where are they, I pray you tell ?” She answered, “Seven are we, . " And two of us at Conway dwell, “ And two are gone to sea.
"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
“You say that two at Conway dwell,
Then did the little Maid reply,
“ You run about, my little maid,
“Their graves are green, they may be seen;"
The little Maid replied, “ Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, “ And they are side by side.
“My stockings there I often knit,
“And often after sunset; Sir,
“ The first that died was little Jane ;:
“ So in the church-yard she was laid,
“ And when the ground was white with snow, “ And I could run and slide, “ My brother John was forced to go, “ And he lies by her side."