It was a long, long time ago,
Since I was at my mother's knee -
Trying in vain on my tipped toe
To stand as tall as she could sit*
'Your cousin.' said my mother to me,
'Was the loveliest girl in Pontypool,
Or through the Rhondda Valley; still
The girls would look at her sweet face,
As though there were no boys; for she
Had heaps of hair which, when combed down,
Gould be a coat, or half a gown.
Until one day when full of joy,
To hear my baby coo so well,
She tossed that hair, and its full weight
Breaking her slender neck - she fell.
Your cousin died - to end our story -
Killed by a thing that was her glory.'