IV.
Yet be kind to her, my Alice;
'Tis no fault of hers
If her wilful little mistress
Other dolls prefers.
Did she pull her pretty hair out?
Did she break her crown?
Did she pull her arms and legs off,
Poor Jemima Brown?
V.
Little hands that did the mischief,
You must do your best
Now to give the poor old dolly
Comfortable rest.
So we'll make the cradle ready,
And we'll lay her down;
And we'll ask Papa to mend her,
Poor Jemima Brown!
[ALICE'S SUPPER.]
Far down in the meadow the wheat grows green,
And the reapers are whetting their sickles so keen;
And this is the song that I hear them sing,
While cheery and loud their voices ring:
"'Tis the finest wheat that ever did grow!
And it is for Alice's supper, ho! ho!"
Far down in the valley the old mill stands,
And the miller is rubbing his dusty white hands;
And these are the words of the miller's lay,
As he watches the millstones a-grinding away:
"'Tis the finest flour that money can buy,
And it is for Alice's supper, hi! hi!"