Why is Mary standing there,
Leaning down upon the chair,
With pouting lip and frowning brow?
I wonder what's the matter now.
Come here, my dear, and tell me true,
Is it because I spoke to you
About what you just now had done,
That you are such a naughty one?
When, then, indeed, I'm grieved to see
That you can so ill-tempered be:
You make your faults a great deal worse
By being sulky and perverse.
Oh! how much better it appears,
To see you melting into tears,
And then to hear you humbly say,
"I'll not do so another day!"