“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!”