'There's an agnus dei on her breast,' says she.

'Go an' pray,' says she.

Pray the Cure did, an' pray did we all, but the woman died of the plague.

All alone did Rosalie draw her to the grave on a stone-boat down the lane, an' over the hill, an' into the churchyard.

An' buried her with her own hands at night, no one knowin' till the mornin', she did.