I am her little pet, you know, and take her nice sweet cakes—
Good bye; said he, and brush’d away thro’ bushes and thro’ brakes.
And not five minutes had pass’d by since he had quitted her,
Before he reach’d the village and the cottage near the fir.
He rubb’d and scratch’d against the door; but she was ill in bed;
And when he tried to make a knock, she feebly raised her head;
And cried, who knocks at Martha’s door, and poor old Martha wakes?
It is your little pet, said he, who brings you nice sweet cakes.
God help you, dearest child, she cried, so pull the string you know;
And up the latch will go, my love, and you may enter so.