And that’s what she did in a Convent.
She dare not keep thimble, cotton, or rag,
Her clothes were not fit for a bone-picker’s bag,
And would make her walk about, isn’t it sad,
When she was in the Convent.
If she snored in bed that was not right,
Or picked gooseberries that was not ripe,
This duck of a mother led her a fine life.
Oh, who would live in a Convent?
If she dared to write, or too loud speak,