  Come, little Mary, come to me, And say your lesson on my knee, Your book is there, the pointer in it, All ready to begin this minute. What! pout your lip, and scream and cry, And say, "I won't, I can't:"—Oh fie! Then go, and in that corner stay, Till sobs and tears have pass'd away; Till you can come with voice more mild, And say, "Mamma, forgive your child." What little girl is this, whose eyes Smile through her tears, while thus she cries? "My dear mamma, I love you, pray Forgive your child, and let me say My lesson, standing at your knee, Then give a kind sweet kiss to me." It is my Mary! now her look Is turn'd attentive to her book, And now her lesson she has read, Her task without a fault has said, Mamma's best kiss she now has won, So well her lessons she has done:
She's happy now, and good and gay, And joins her sisters at their play; There on the grass they skip, they sing, Till all the hills and valleys ring. |
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