When I am gone, I leave to Sister
My Gown of  and my Aprons blue.
My studded Sheep-hook  may take,
Likewise my Hay-fork and my Hazel Rake:
My hoarded Apples and my winter Pears
Be thine, O  to reward thy Cares.
These Nuts that late were pluck'd from yonder Tree,
And this Straw-basket, I bequeath to thee:
That Basket did these dying Fingers weave:
My boxen Flute to  I leave,
So shall it charm the list'ning Nymphs around,
For none like him can make it sweetly sound.