Behind, the maid, a very old maid,

Is carrying out the clothes:

I don’t know if there’s a blackbird near,

Prepared to snap off her nose.

And there stands the little maid by the well,

And a little doll sits on the brink:

Her name is Belinda Dorothy Ann,

And that’s a fine name, I think!

A little bird sits on the garden pale,

And his voice is clear and good,—

He’s one of the robins who covered up,

With leaves of the berries on which they did sup,

The children in the wood.

Jack Sprat lives there also, and Hop-o’-my-Thumb,

And Jack the Giant-Killer;

And Humpty-Dumpty, and Puss in Boots,

Likewise the Jolly Miller.

And the nice little man who had a small gun,

Whose bullets were made of lead,

He used to live there, but is not there now,

Because, poor fellow, he’s dead.

All these might you see, as plain as could be,

And many a fairy wight;

But this cannot be, because—don’t you see?—

They’re every one out of sight.

And all that you find there, children and mother,

Have been in some fairy tale or other;

And therefore the good little children all

Are fond of going to Little-doll Hall;

And if you’re a good child, I and you

On some fine day will go there too.