As Frances was playing, and turning around,
Her head grew so giddy, she fell to the ground;
'Twas well that she was not much hurt:
But, O what a pity! her frock was so soiled,
That had you beheld the unfortunate child,
You had seen her all covered with dirt.
Her mother was sorry, and said, Do not cry,
And Mary shall wash you, and make you quite dry,
If you'll promise to turn round no more.
What, not in the parlor? the little girl said:
No, not in the parlor; for lately I read,
Of a girl who was hurt with the door.
She was playing and turning, until her poor head
Fell against the hard door, and it very much bled,
And I heard Dr. Camomile tell,
That he put on a plaster, and covered it up,
Then he gave her some tea, that was bitter to sup,
Or perhaps it had never been well.