"O my pretty pink frock,
I sha'n't be able to wear it!
Why is he dying just now?
        I hardly can bear it!

"He might have contrived to live on;
But they say there's no hope whatever:
And must I shut myself up,
        And go out never?

"O my pretty pink frock,
Puff-sleeved and accordion-pleated!
He might have passed in July,
        And not so cheated!"