Had n't a head to manage, and drank himself into his
grave.
Pretty enough, very pretty! but I was against it for
one.
Eh!--but he would n't hear me--and Willy, you say,
is gone.

III.
Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the
flock;
Never a man could fling him: for Willy stood like a
rock.
`Here's a leg for a babe of a week!' says doctor; and
he would be bound,
There was not his like that year in twenty parishes
round.

IV.
Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of
his tongue!
I ought to have gone before him: I wonder he went
so young.
I cannot cry for him, Annie: I have not long to
stay;
Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far
away.

V.
Why do you look at me, Annie? you think I am hard
and cold;