She clasps her hands against her breast,
All done up in her Sunday best,
A perfect figure, lying there
Upon a cloud of raven hair.
Adorned with ribbons and with lace,
A laurel wreath to frame her face,
Her arms with opalescent skin
Are folded 'round her violin.
Impeccable from head to feet
She rests beneath the ghostly sheet,
And in her coffin neatly laid
With flowers tastefully arrayed.