By Her Aunt’s Grave
“Sixpence a week,” says the girl to her lover,“Aunt used to bring me, for she could confideIn me alone, she vowed. ’Twas to coverThe cost of her headstone when she died.And that was a year ago last June;I’ve not yet fixed it. But I must soon.”
“And where is the money now, my dear?”“O, snug in my purse . . . Aunt was so slowIn saving it—eighty weeks, or near.” . . .“Let’s spend it,” he hints. “For she won’t know.There’s a dance to-night at the Load of Hay.”She passively nods. And they go that way.
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