“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!”