August

It really makes me very sad To tell the illness dollie’s had. The causes were not wholly plain, But remedies were all in vain; And doctors said that she must go Down where the ocean breezes blow.

At home the lilies are in bloom, Here sea-winds give the sole perfume. And Dolladine is growing brown As dry leaves when they flutter down. Gone are her ills, forgotten quite. Deep in the sand they hide from sight.

I’ve made of her a mermaid fair. A veil of sea-weed shrouds her hair. A rope of sea-shells decks her gown, Low falling, all her drapery down. In the whole world of waters green, There’s naught so fair as Dolladine.