Little sister, come away,
And let us in the garden play,
For it is a pleasant day.
On the grassplot let us sit,
Or, if you please, we'll play a bit,
And run about all over it.
But the fruit we will not pick,
For that would be a naughty trick,
And, very likely, make us sick.
Nor will we pluck the pretty flowers
That grow about the beds and bowers,
Because, you know, they are not ours.
We'll pluck the daisies, white and red,
Because mamma has often said,
That we may gather them instead.
And much I hope we always may
Out very dear mamma obey,
And mind whatever she may say.