Mopy Maria
Would sit by the fire,
It seemed to be
Her greatest desire;
Bent and bowed
As if wrapped in a shroud,
And her face as black
As a thunder-cloud.
She filled the room
So full of gloom,
The place was as
Dismal as a tomb;
And few would admire
Her, or desire
To spend much time
With Mopy Maria,
She moped and pined
Yet no-one could find
That any trouble
Disturbed her mind;
Nor reasons good
Why she should brood
An such a
Ridiculous attitude.
It wasn't her style
To laugh and smile
She didn't think
It was worth her while;
So dull and flat
She daily sat
Like a Chinese idol,
Or worse than that,
If the children came
To propose a game
Of any sort,
It was all the same;
She wouldn't play,
She wouldn't be gay,
But sat and pouted
The livelong day.
Her face grew thin;
And at length her chin
Grew long and sharp;
Oh! as sharp as a pin!
And one windy day
She blew away
Like a great big kite
That had gone astray.
The winds were high,
And she had to fly
Away at their bidding;
It made her cry;
But she couldn't get higher
Than the tall church spire,
So there she stuck--
Poor Mopy Maria!