How does your garden grow?
With silver bells, and cockle shells,
And tulips, all of a row."
Prithee, tell me, Mistress Mary,
Whence this rhyme of "quite contrary"?
Why should Mother Goose, beholding
All these pleasant blooms unfolding,—
Every prim and pretty border
Standing in such shining order,—
Looking o'er the lovely rows,