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AH, Mary! what, do you for dolly not care?
And why is she left on the floor?
Forsaken, and cover'd with dust, I declare;
With you I must trust her no more.
I thought you were pleased, as you took her so gladly,
When on your birthday she was sent;
Did I ever suppose you would use her so sadly?
Was that, do you think, what I meant?
With her bonnet of straw you once were delighted,
And trimm'd it so pretty with pink;
But now it is crumpled, and dolly is slighted:
Her nurse quite forgets her, I think.
Suppose now–for Mary is dolly to me,
Whom I love to see tidy and fair–
Suppose I should leave you, as dolly I see,
In tatters, and comfortless there.
But dolly feels nothing, as you do, my dear,
Nor cares for her negligent nurse:
If I were as careless as you are, I fear,
Your lot, and my fault, would be worse.
And therefore it is, in my Mary, I strive
To check every fault that I see:
Mary's doll is but waxen–mamma's is alive,
And of far more importance than she.
Ann Taylor |
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Ann Taylor
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