Oh! Mary, my mary,
Why, where is your dolly?
Look here, I protest, on the floor:
To leave her about
In the dirt so is folly,
You ought to be trusted no more.
I thought you were pleas'd.
And receiv'd her quite gladly,
When on your birthday she came home;
Did I ever suppose
You would use her so sadly,
And strew her things over the room?
Her bonnet of straw
You once thought a great matter,
And tied it so pretty and neat;
Now see how 'tis crumpled,
No trencher is flatter,
It grieves your mamma thus to see't.
Suppose (you're my Dolly,
You know, little daughter,
Whom I love to dress neat, and see good),
Suppose in my care of you,
I were to falter,
And let you get dirty and rude!
But Dolly's mere wood,
You are flesh and bone living,
And deserves better treatment and care;
That is true, my sweet girl,
'Tis the reason I'm giving
This lesson so sharp and severe.
'Tis not for the Dolly
I'm anxious and fearful,
Tho' she cost too much to be spoil'd;
I'm afraid lest yourself
Should get sluttish, not careful,
And that were a sad thing, my child.