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That model Miss, Jemima Jane
Was very good, and very plain;
Her parents noticed with delight
How neat she was, and how polite.
Sometimes her young companions came
And begged she’d join them in a game.
But it was never any use;
She’d make some civil, quiet excuse,
And, “Dear Mama,” she’d whisp’ring say,
“I love plain sewing more than play;
I hope you’ll always think of me
As your own gentle, busy Bee!”
Jane rose at five. “What for?” you ask;
And I reply, “To con her task.”
She breakfasted on milk and bread,
Nor ever asked for aught instead;
“I like it best, because,” said she,
“’Tis wholesome for a child like me.”
She used to think it quite a treat,
To put her bed and chamber neat;
But she enjoyed—oh, better far!
Saying her tasks to her Mama.
She took the air when these were done,
But she would never romp and run;
Prim and sedate she walked about,
Her back quite straight, her toes turned out:
And all the people, seeing this,
Exclaimed, “Oh, what a model Miss!”
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