LITMIR.BIZ

      —A simple child,

      That lightly draws its breath,

      And feels its life in every limb,

      What should it know of death?

      I met a little cottage girl:

      She was eight years old, she said;

      Her hair was thick with many a curl

      That clustered round her head.

      She had a rustic, woodland air,

      And she was wildly clad:

      Her eyes were fair, and very fair—

      Her beauty made me glad.

      “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 churchyard lie,

      My sister and my brother;

      And in the churchyard cottage, I

      Dwell near them with my mother.”

      “You say that two at Conway dwell,

      And two are gone to sea,

      Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,

      Sweet Maid, how this may be.”

      Then did the little maid reply,

      “Seven boys and girls are we;